She’s everything he never wanted…

Haunted by a tragic accident twenty years ago, John Everest knows he doesn’t deserve a family of his own, so he spends his days building the most successful fitness franchise in Seattle... and his nights alone. But that all changes when Samantha Rossi storms back into his life.

Happily single, Samantha feels there are only two types of men in this world: those who are good for nothing and those who are good for one thing. Now she needs that one thing desperately, because she wants a baby. John, a man from her past, is the perfect donor. He doesn’t want children. He doesn’t want a wife. He just wants her body. She can live with that.

John agrees to Samantha’s no-strings-attached proposal, never expecting to fall for the fiery beauty he’d wronged so many years ago. It’ll take more than a shameless proposal to overcome their tragic past, but with a little luck and forgiveness, anything is possible.

SHAMELESS

by

Rebecca J. Clark

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

Shameless

COPYRIGHT © 2012 Rebecca J. Clark/River Gate Press

Second edition © 2015

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: RebeccaJClark.author@gmail.com

Cover Art by Steven Novak

Copy Edited by Jennifer Gracen

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To my beautiful sisters:

Jennifer, for inspiring me to be more generous, kind, and gracious.

Laurie, for motivating me to work harder, step out of my comfort zone, and follow my dreams.

Thank you both for believing in me. I love you.

Prologue

January—20 years ago

Someone should have noticed the stop sign.

They hung out the windows of the stolen Mercury, screaming along with the Scorpions into the cold night air. One of the boys, Carlos, swung a bat at each passing mailbox. His average was two for ten. If he hadn’t pounded back ten brewskis in the past hour, he’d have connected with more.

This highway was a teenage boy’s dream. Northeast of Seattle, sparsely populated without a single traffic light, mile upon mile of straight, flat road stretched out like a carrot on a string. Temptation at her finest. Carlos swore he’d gotten his car to 120 out here. Johnny Everest knew his friend was full of shit. Everyone knew a piece-a-crap Vega, even one with an overhauled V-6, would shimmy and shake before it hit eighty.

Johnny glanced out the open backseat window, the wind blowing his stringy blond hair onto his face. Fence line surrounding the passing farmland whizzed by in a ghostly blue blur in the darkness. It should be him driving. It had been his idea to swipe the car.

He shoved a hand into his jeans pocket and retrieved a crushed pack of Marlboros. He shook one out and lit it. Inhaling, he pictured his parents’ reaction were they to see him right now — a cigarette in one hand and a half-empty beer in the other. They wouldn’t be surprised. His father had low expectations of him. Johnny couldn’t blame him. He was a failure. Always had been, always would be. At fourteen years old, he wasn’t good at much of anything. Actually… that statement wasn’t quite accurate. He wasn’t good at being good. But he was damn good at being bad.

Tonight was no exception. He blew a stream of smoke out the window and the wind blew it right back in his face. Four of them were piled into the stolen Mercury, five if you counted the girl passed out on the backseat floor. Except for her, it was the same old gang. Johnny couldn’t really call them his friends. A person should like his friends. He didn’t particularly give a rat’s pink ass about any of them. He was sure they returned the lack of affection. But they understood each other. Watched each others’ backs.

He chugged his beer and chucked the can. I’m empty.

Dennis tossed back a can from the front seat. Van Halen blared from the radio. Johnny popped the top and took a long swig. He made a face at the foul taste. What is this? Piss? He glanced at the Olympia beer can in his hand. What idiot bought this shit?

Don’t look at me, Dennis said. He motioned to Carlos, who still worked on his batting average. Carlos swiped it from his neighbor’s back porch. It might taste like piss, but it’s free.

Johnny grabbed his crotch. I can get free piss any day of the week. He drained the can and crumpled it in his fist, then tossed it out the window. We got any more Schmidt?

Dennis rooted around at his feet and snagged a can. It’s the last one.

I see my name on it. Johnny reached for it.

Dennis yanked it away. No way, Johnny. This one’s mine. You think I like drinkin’ piss any more’n you do?

Johnny stretched his arm over back of the front seat and made a fist. Rock, scissors, paper. He picked rock, Dennis chose scissors, Johnny won. He always won that game.

He leaned back in his seat with his beer. He had no foot room with that girl taking up all the floor space. Her head rested on his shoe. He wiggled his foot. She didn’t budge. Johnny shoved at Dennis’ shoulder. Shouldn’t she be awake by now?

Dennis shrugged as Carlos came away from his little game out the window.

Do you think she’s okay? Johnny asked.

Carlos lifted the hem of the girl’s shirt and peeked under. Hell yeah, she’s okay. Take a look at them titties! He pumped his arms at his sides. The guys had been making lewd comments about her since Morris dumped her unconscious form into the car after that college party they’d crashed at the old airstrip.

Leave her alone, Johnny commanded.

Why should we leave her alone? Carlos asked. We ain’t hurtin’ nothin’. Look, she don’t even know what’s going on. To prove his point, he dribbled beer onto the girl’s pale face, which was mostly hidden beneath a fan of dark brown hair. She didn’t move. See?

As if that made everything all right, Johnny thought. Asshole. Cut it out, Carlos. Johnny stared at the girl. Does anybody know her name? Morris? You’re the one who picked her up.

Morris glanced over his shoulder, causing the car to swerve over the center line. Sammy Jo. He paused. I think. Morris shot Johnny a hard glance through the rearview mirror. I’m trusting you to keep an eye on my bitch. I want everything to remain in working order, ya know?

Hiding his concern, Johnny gave a cool nod. Morris was 22 years old and the scariest dude he’d ever met. His eyes never showed any emotion, kind of like Freddy Krueger. Real freaky. She’d been sitting next to the keg with some girlfriends. Johnny had noticed her the second they’d arrived. She looked old, maybe nineteen or twenty. She had long dark hair with eyes to match. Killer body in her Calvin Klein jeans. Major fox. He couldn’t stop staring at her. She, of course, hadn’t spared him a glance. No attractive girl ever did. What girl in her right mind would be attracted to a scrawny, young shit like him when a hulk like Morris was around? The guy might be a king-sized prick, but the chicks loved him.

Johnny glanced at the girl again. She’d been hanging all over Morris, looking up at him with her big, brown eyes. No one ever looked at him like that... He’d noticed she wasn’t drinking much, so when she started to stagger and stumble against Morris, Johnny knew what the guy had done. Morris hadn’t been able to have her while she was sober and conscious, but now… Johnny swallowed hard. He knew Morris’ reputation. The girl wouldn’t have a prayer. She’d wake up and have no idea where the hell she was or who the hell she was with. He shivered in spite of the warm summer night.

What the hell was he doing hanging around a bunch of losers like this? It takes one to know one.

Yo, Morris! Carlos called out. Pull over. I gotta take a leak.

Dennis nodded. Yeah, I gotta piss, too.

Morris shook his head. You kidding? I ain’t stopping anywhere until we ditch this car. You shitheads’ll have to hold it.

Carlos rolled down his window the rest of the way. Hell if I’m gonna hold it. Watch this. He stuck his upper body out the window and unzipped his fly. He pulled his dick out of his pants and aimed it at the fence line.

While everyone else was busy watching Carlos pee, Johnny bent over the girl at his feet. The faint scent of roses reached his nose. He was surprised to see her eyes open. They slammed shut, but not before he’d seen her fear.

Hey, he whispered, poking her shoulder. Sammy Jo?

She didn’t respond.

I know you’re awake.

Still no response.

I won’t hurt you.

Yeah, and the Pope ain’t Catholic, she muttered, her voice thick from the alcohol.

He had to grin at her spunk. He glanced at the other guys to make sure they weren’t paying attention. They weren’t. Dennis had joined Carlos in spraying the landscape with a golden shower. Are you okay?

Peachy.

He wondered if she’d been unconscious when Carlos had looked up her shirt. He hoped so. You’re not hurt?

No. Anger replaced most of the fear in her eyes. Where are you jerks taking me?

This was Morris’ idea — the driver. I don’t know what he has in mind, Johnny lied. He knew exactly what Morris had in mind.

Morris, she whispered and closed her eyes, as if to squeeze back tears. She started to sit up and he pushed her back down.

Stay put, okay? You’re probably better off with them not knowing you’re awake. When we stop, I’ll figure something out. At least, he hoped he would.

He saw the argument in her eyes, but finally she nodded. She obviously didn’t trust him. Why should she?

"Yo! Pendejo! Carlos roared from his stance out the window. You pissed all over me! He ducked inside the car. Dennis, you dickweed, you pissed all over me!"

Johnny straightened. He and Morris howled with laughter as Dennis sat back down. You shouldna been hanging so far out, Dennis said with a nonchalant shrug of bony shoulders under a red T-shirt.

If you had a bigger dick, Johnny told Dennis, you’da had better range. Everyone except Dennis whooped. Morris swiveled around and high-fived Johnny.

No one saw the stop sign.

Johnny’s last conscious memories were the flash of a white station wagon in the intersection ahead, a glimpse of two, small faces in the window right before impact, then an ear-splitting explosion of metal and glass.

* * * *

Johnny sat on the cot with his back against the wall, knees folded to his chest. Thank God they’d put him in a cell alone. He had no desire to be some loser con’s butt boy. With the way his head pounded and how his body ached like one giant bruise, he doubted he’d be able to defend himself.

He’d been booked into juvenile lock-up first thing this morning, after having spent most of the night at Overlake Hospital in Bellevue. He had yet to see his parents. His mom was probably wringing her hands with worry, but she wouldn’t make an effort to see her son. Not without her husband’s approval. And Harlan Everest would remain steadfast in his determination his son suffer the consequences of his actions.

A man tormented by the guilt of murder will be a fugitive ‘til death; let no one support him.

Those had been the first words out of his father’s mouth when Johnny called from the hospital last night to tell his parents about the accident. Scripture. Always scripture. Not, Are you hurt? or I’ll be right there. Nope. The senior Everest had been more concerned with his son’s spiritual salvation than his well-being. Just once, Johnny would love to hear, What were you thinking? or I didn’t raise you to behave that way, because that’s what a normal father might say to his son.

With Harlan it was always about instilling the fear of the Lord into his family to make them do what was right and good. It worked with Johnny’s mom — she was scared of her own shadow when her husband was around — and it worked with Johnny’s goody-two-shoes older brother. It had never worked with Johnny.

Until now.

Now he was afraid. He was scared shitless.

He and the girl, Sammy Jo, had been the only ones in the Mercury to survive the crash. The last he’d seen of her, she’d been lying on a gurney being loaded into a waiting ambulance. He’d been told she’d broken her back, but beyond that, he had no idea what happened to her. He made sure the cops knew she’d been an innocent victim in all this.

An innocent victim.

He swallowed and blinked back tears. She wasn’t the only one. The station wagon they’d hit had carried a family. A father and mother and two little girls. The father had been whisked away in an ambulance. The mother seemed okay physically. She’d sat in the back of a police car, crying. Even through the closed windows, he’d heard her wails of grief.

He still heard them, her screams of anguish as the medics removed the children’s bodies from the wreckage. Bright blue plastic sheets over the tiny mounds that used to be living, breathing beings.

Clenching his hands into fists, he rocked back and forth, tears oozing from tightly closed eyelids. He should never have suggested they steal the car. He should never have made the joke about Dennis, causing Morris to turn and miss the stop sign. It was his fault those kids were dead.

Sammy Jo survived because she’d been wedged between the seats on the floor. He didn’t know how he’d managed to live with barely a scratch. A stroke of pure luck, he supposed.

Luck. Right.

He sure didn’t feel lucky.

His dad’s parting words from the telephone call haunted him, would haunt him forever. The ransom for a life is costly, no payment is ever enough. But if there is a serious injury, you are to take life for life, eye for eye. His father may have mixed his scripture, but his meaning was clear. Somehow, sometime, Johnny would pay for what he and his stupid friends had done.

Forgiveness would be a long time coming… if ever.

The tears he cried that night weren’t for his dead friends. He cried for the little girls and their parents, especially the mother, whose wails still echoed in his ears. He cried for the girl, Sammy Jo, who had done nothing but be in the wrong place at the wrong time. And, selfishly, he cried for himself.

Chapter 1

January—20 years later

Seattle Central High School was built when the area still had charm, when the houses surrounding it were new, and sagging gutters and rotted fences were the oddity rather than the norm. The school was two-storied and fronted with windows. It was an unusual day when at least a few of those windows weren’t boarded from some idiot throwing a rock through the panes.

Despite these problems, school officials and optimistic neighbors attempted to keep the grounds clean and graffiti free. Just this morning, the head custodian spent four back-breaking hours scrubbing fluorescent orange letters reading EAT ME off the cement walls of the gymnasium.

One building, however, was free of defacement. The weight room was a small, nondescript structure with gray metal siding and matching roof, and a little defacement might have been an improvement to its drab exterior.

Right now, the building’s metal siding reverberated and hummed from the music blaring within. While the rap artist’s booming words suggested pandemonium, the activity inside the facility was relatively structured and mellow. Spread throughout the room, doing various weight-training exercises, was a group that would do the staunchest supporter of the politically-correct movement proud. The teenagers were a rainbow of cultural diversity in terms of race and gender. All of them had one thing in common, however. All were from broken home environments and doing poorly in school.

It was the intimidating presence of the two adults in the room that kept this colorful group in check. One of the adults was Alex Drake, a gigantic black man with a barrel chest and thick neck barely contained in a white T-shirt. A crescent-shaped scar on his bald head shone like a glow-in-the-dark decal under the rows of bare light bulbs hanging from the rafters. If appearance was an indicator of approachability, he was the type of man you’d quickly cross the street to avoid. One look into those narrow dark eyes and you’d think this was one mean son of a bitch. Until you heard him laugh. Then those dark eyes crinkled at the corners and he’d emit a silly high-pitched sound out of place in a man half his size. Anyone who heard it couldn’t help laughing with him.

That was happening now. Something must have struck Alex funny, because he clutched his stomach and laughed so hard, the veins in his neck looked ready to burst.

The other adult present, a man whose own physique was nothing to sneeze at even though it was a fraction of Alex’s size, stole a quick glance across the room. John Everest smirked and couldn’t help chuckling as laughter erupted from the kids near Alex.

John turned back to the teenager he spotted on the bench press. Three. Four. You’re doing great, Damian. He hovered behind the weight bench as the sixteen-year-old completed his repetitions. Eight. Two more. You can do it. Don’t hold your breath. Damian grunted, clenched his teeth, and pushed with all his might. John hooked his fingers under the bar and helped the kid finish his reps. Nine. Ten. Good job. He guided the bar to the rack and tossed the boy a towel. That was 10 pounds more than last time.

No shit? I mean, no foolin’? Damian swung his stocky legs over the side of the bench, looking at the weight plates attached to the bar. Cool, he said with a toothy grin, nodding his head in rhythm with the rap music as he headed to another station.

Glancing around to see who needed his help, John noticed Brian on a bench in the corner, separated from the rest of the group as usual. He was one of the newer members of the after-school program, having joined just before Christmas. So far, he had yet to open up to anyone. He’d apparently spent much of his life moving from one bad situation to another with his heroin-addicted mother and her string of scuzzy boyfriends.

Brian stretched a leg out in front of him and rubbed his hamstring. He glanced up as John approached, his green eyes flat and expressionless, as if he didn’t give a damn about life or anybody in it.

John recognized that look. He’d had it perfected by Brian’s age. The kid had the whole tough guy routine down pat, from his shaved head to the gold skull earring dangling from one earlobe. He wore baggy sweats hung low on narrow hips and his pale upper body was bare except for the tattoo of a woman’s well-endowed breasts painted over his left bicep. His build was lanky and lean, what some people would call scrappy. All the more reason for the bad attitude.

Pulled your hamstring? John asked. The boy reminded him of himself at that age — gawky and self-conscious, using a hard-ass attitude to hide his insecurities.

The fifteen-year-old shrugged. Maybe.

Can you put any weight on it? Can you stand?

Brian winced but was able to support his weight. I’m fine.

Sure you are, tough guy. John knew better than to make a big deal about it, but he needed to know how serious the injury was. Try bending your leg, lifting your heel toward your butt. The boy followed his directions. Hurt?

Maybe.

Hmm. Probably just a minor pull. How much were you lifting? He glanced at the bars on the machine then picked up Brian’s required exercise log from where it had been tossed onto the floor. You increased your poundage by almost 50 percent since last week. No wonder you pulled something.

Brian sat on the bench. Thought I could do it.

John bopped him over the head with the soft-covered journal. No more than a ten-percent increase next time, okay, sport?

Brian shrugged again, but the corners of his mouth tugged upward. Not quite a smile, but close.

John dropped the journal onto the bench. I’ll get you some ice.

He threaded his way through the weight equipment toward the first aid kit. He side-stepped Tanya, who danced in front of the stereo. One of the original members, she didn’t seem to take the program too seriously, never doing much in the way of participating. Once or twice, he’d caught her staring at Alex with a dreamy expression. With her reputation for banging bad boys, he figured the girl hadn’t had many positive male role models in her life — specifically black role models — and she was perhaps a bit star-struck.

He rooted through the gym bag and pulled a crystallized ice pack from the first aid kit. He headed back toward Brian.

Here, he said to the boy. Lie on your stomach. He twisted the ice pack, breaking the crystals. The bag chilled in his hands. He draped a towel across Brian’s skinny leg and placed the cold pack on the towel. Keep it there until you can’t stand the cold any longer, okay? Then I’ll show you a couple of easy stretches you can do at home to loosen it.

Across the room, Alex clapped his hands. Okay, everyone. Cool down time.

John turned the stereo down a few decibels, wresting a dirty look from Tanya, then joined the group as they gathered on the mats in front of the mirrors.

After the kids had gone, Alex asked, Sherlock Holmes find anything yet? He gathered the CDs and shoved them into a gym bag.

He found her.

Serious? Where?

Here in Seattle. John’s body tensed just thinking about it, about her. He’s got pictures even. I’m meeting him on the waterfront tonight. Grabbing a towel, he wiped down the benches.

I still can’t believe you hired a private detective.

John shrugged. Sunday was the twenty year anniversary of that night. I’ve always wondered what happened to her. Even after all this time, he wanted to know she was all right. He needed to know that.

You know what they say about curiosity and the cat.

Yeah, yeah.

A light sprinkling of rain dusted them as they left the building and headed toward their cars. The late afternoon sky darkened with clouds and night. A distant whistle echoed from the nearby gymnasium, and car stereos and teenage laughter flitted to them from the student parking lot.

The kids all seem to be making progress, Alex said, his breath fogging in front of his face.

Mm. I’m worried about Brian though. He’s not warming to anyone.

He reminds me of someone I once knew — a skinny little runt with an attitude the size of Mount Everest — excuse the play on words.

Alex was the only one who could get away with such a comment. John’s past wasn’t something he was proud of.

After the accident, the DA had been antsy to prosecute someone. Since John was the only survivor besides Sammy Jo, who was innocent of any wrong-doing, he’d been the target. He wound up in a boys’ home for three years — the same home as Alex. He’d been scared to death of Alex at first, a tough-looking black giant from one of the meanest gangs in South Seattle. Alex did his best to bully him those first few weeks, but John had become a master at not showing fear or intimidation, so Alex finally bored of him. Eventually, they’d become friends.

He glanced at Alex. They’d come a long way since then. Each had a lot to be proud of. Alex was a retired NFL lineman and now managed John’s downtown Seattle gym, and was part owner of several others.

Most rewarding though, for both of them, was their work with these kids.

They reached their cars and disarmed the alarms. The simultaneous beeps screamed through the cold air. Just then, a not-so-distant gunshot rang out, the eerie sound echoing over the rooftops of the surrounding neighborhood.

He glanced at his friend. Is that what I think it was?

Alex nodded from the driver’s side of his black Firebird. Not quite music to your ears, eh? They both frowned.

For a few moments, the area was silent except for the rain tinkering against their cars. Then, just as suddenly, it was back to normal: the echoing dribble of a basketball in the gymnasium, a radio blasting in a car from the other side of the parking lot, a wailing siren on unseen streets.

* * * *

Brian Carsten ducked into the shadowy alley between the row houses on Pritchard Avenue. Squatting behind some dented garbage cans, he peered through them toward the street. And waited.

It wasn’t long before the maroon coupe cruised past, its dark windows obscuring the passengers. He knew who they were. Boyo and Razor had approached him the first week he’d moved here in November and had beat the shit out of him, giving him his second broken nose of the year, the first having been a gift from his mom’s last boyfriend. They’d told him this was their turf and he didn’t have their permission to walk on it. Of course, if he was to become one of them, he’d have their protection. But if not, he’d have to watch his back until the day they shot him between his skinny-ass shoulder blades. Brian had no intention of becoming one of them. He might be a loser, but he wasn’t that big a loser.

He shifted his crouched stance, the back of his thigh throbbing from pulling it at the high school. His blood roared in his ears and his gut constricted as if he’d been kicked. Holding his breath, he kept perfectly still. They’d shot at him when he’d left the school grounds. He figured they were just trying to intimidate him, otherwise they’d have kept shooting until they’d hit him. Still, he wasn’t taking any chances.

He knew all the hiding places on the four-block trek to his house, every alley, every bush big enough to shield him from the road, every broken-down car to use as a buffer. The fear ate a constant hole in his gut, always wondering what was around the next corner, what would happen if he ever let down his guard.

Sometimes he felt like saying fuck it and just walking down the sidewalk like a normal guy in a normal neighborhood, like he’d been able to do when he was little, before his mom started doing meth and shacking up with jerk after jerk to support them because she couldn’t hold a job.

But a guy just didn’t stroll down the streets around here. A white guy would get himself killed or maimed. He was white, but he wasn’t stupid.

Besides his injured hamstring, his calves were starting to cramp. The car hadn’t been by in a while. He figured he was in the clear. For today. Tomorrow it would start all over again.

He had the overwhelming urge to run the remaining two blocks to his house despite his slight injury, but if anyone saw him they’d call him a pussy. The only thing worse than being shot was being called a pussy. So, with the hair on the back of his neck on end and every muscle in his body on alert, he limped home.

Glad to make it there in one piece, he pushed open the back door, letting out a long breath of relief as he entered the kitchen. A whiff of pot and beer and bad housekeeping assailed his nostrils, along with something else he couldn’t quite place.

What the hell are you doing, boy?

Brian cringed at the admonition of his mother’s latest keeper, but carefully kept his expression straight. Earl Borksaw was a big, hairy ape of a man with the intelligence of a Neanderthal and the temper of a rabid dog. He didn’t know what his mom saw in the man, especially since right now Earl’s baggy-at-the-butt jeans were bunched around his knees as his bare ass pumped a woman propped on the kitchen counter. A woman who wasn’t Brian’s mother.

It was Carla Perfilli from next door. Brian wondered where his mom was and if she knew, or cared, what Earl was up to. Or into, as the case may be. He realized what that other smell was and almost grimaced. It was sex. If you could call what Earl was doing to Carla sex. Brian took a fair amount of pleasure in seeing she looked bored to tears, even as her saggy breasts bounced and jumped with every unskilled thrust of Earl Borksaw’s wide hips.

He wasn’t surprised Earl was screwing Carla, or Carla was being screwed by Earl. She’d bang anyone with a dick. If you had some crack on you, hell, she’d give you head, too. She’d offered to do Brian more than once. If he wasn’t afraid