Lust & Loyalty Read online

  Also by Shelly Ellis

  Chesterton Scandal series

  Best Kept Secrets

  Bed of Lies

  Gibbons Gold Digger series

  Can’t Stand the Heat

  The Player & the Game

  Another Woman’s Man

  The Best She Ever Had

  Published by Dafina Books

  Lust & Loyalty

  SHELLY ELLIS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1 - Evan

  Chapter 2 - Leila

  Chapter 3 - Terrence

  Chapter 4 - C. J.

  Chapter 5 - Evan

  Chapter 6 - Leila

  Chapter 7 - C. J.

  Chapter 8 - Terrence

  Chapter 9 - Dante

  Chapter 10 - Evan

  Chapter 11 - Terrence

  Chapter 12 - Dante

  Chapter 13 - C. J.

  Chapter 14 - Terrence

  Chapter 15 - Leila

  Chapter 16 - C. J.

  Chapter 17 - Evan

  Chapter 18 - Dante

  Chapter 19 - Terrence

  Chapter 20 - Leila

  Chapter 21 - C. J.

  Chapter 22 - Dante

  Chapter 23 - Terrence

  Chapter 24 - Evan

  Chapter 25 - Leila

  Chapter 26 - Terrence

  Chapter 27 - Dante

  Chapter 28 - Evan

  LUST & LOYALTY

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  Teaser chapter

  Teaser chapter

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  DAFINA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2017 by Shelly Ellis

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Dafina and the Dafina logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-0878-6

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-0880-9

  eISBN-10: 1-4967-0880-6

  First Kensington Electronic Edition: April 2017

  To Andrew and Chloe—my North and my South . . .

  To Mom and Dad—my East and my West . . .

  Thanks for helping to give me a sense of direction.

  Acknowledgments

  Nina Simone once said, “An artist’s duty, as far as I’m concerned, is to reflect the times.” Maybe it’s about time that I start to do the same. But when writing commercial lit, I’m always wary of being too heavy-handed with the allegories and messaging. This is supposed to be escapism, isn’t it? People have a lot to deal with in their everyday lives and may just want to have a good time laughing, sighing, and rolling their eyes at all the drama on a novel’s pages. But, when I really thought about it, I realized I’ve tried to do a little of it in the past. In Can’t Stand the Heat, I talked about physical abuse in romantic relationships. In Another Woman’s Man, I explored a character finding out that her father was dying of cancer, and the feelings of loss and frustration she experienced soon after his death. In Bed of Lies, I talked about depression and plan to explore it even more in this book, the follow-up, Lust & Loyalty. Also, considering the times and current events, from the current political environment to #BlackLivesMatter protests, it’s hard not to put any of that in your work. Police brutality, especially within the black community, is always a concern. How black people, particularly how black men, are viewed and subsequently treated by cops regardless of their socioeconomic status can be alarming. In the real world, the Murdoch brothers, even with all their money, influence, and status wouldn’t be immune. I chose to reflect that in this entry of the Chesterton Scandal saga. I tried not to be heavy-handed with it, but hopefully I still get my point across.

  I wouldn’t have the ability to write, to take any chances with my work, if it wasn’t for those around me who help me to get words on page. The person I always acknowledge first is my husband, Andrew, who was there before the books made it from my laptop to the bookshelf. He pep-talked me through each rejection letter and helped me keep the faith even when my belief in myself faltered.

  I also want to thank my former editor, Mercedes Fernandez, for seeing the talent in me, and my new editor, Esi Sogah, for seeing it, too, and believing in the stories that I write. Having a champion for your work in a publishing house is immeasurable, and I’m grateful for every time you ladies go before the editorial board and say, “I really like this. We should acquire it.” I’m even more grateful for the doors you have opened for other writers of color. We really appreciate you!

  I also want to thank my agent, Barbara Poelle. You can make as many martinis and goofy jokes as you want . . . I know you definitely have your stuff together. You’re an agent who I know has my back and will make sure I’m taken care of. I come to you with ideas and you always say, “I love it! Now let’s make that idea reality.” Thank you so much for all that you do.

  Prologue

  Hospitals weren’t usually happy places, especially the Wilson Medical Center ICU, where many of the patients hovered near death’s door and a pall of sickness seemed to hang over every surface. But today the ICU staff at least tried to be festive in honor of the new nurse’s birthday. Meredith, the plump nurse with the springy red curls and freckles, was turning thirty. The other nurses figured the big 3-0 deserved, at minimum, a small party in their break room. They had even brought a cake and candles for her. One of the nurses, Rhonda, had brought balloons and streamers that were left over from her nephew’s birthday earlier that week. By the time they had finished decorating that sad-looking room, with its bare white walls, lone microwave, coffeemaker, and two tables, it looked like a completely different place. A small two-tiered cake sat at the center of one of the tables on a cotton bedsheet they used as a makeshift tablecloth.

  They decided to hold the party midday when visiting hours were at a lull because many of the patients’ families would leave to eat lunch and return in an hour or so to stand vigil at their loved ones’ bedsides. The five nurses on that shift had agreed to take turns at the front desk and keep an ear out for buzzing from patients’ rooms, though most of the patients were so sedated they wouldn’t be buzzing anything. Not Mr. J. Hinkler in room 402, who was dying of cirrhosis of the liver, or Mrs. C. Reynolds in room 410, who had suffered multiple strokes and was now little more than a vegetable connected to a respirator, and certainly not Mr. D. Turner in room 406.

  Turner was the youngest patient in the ICU, and if it weren’t for the gunshot wound to the stomach that he had suffered a week ago, he probably wouldn’t have found himself in the ward at all. He looked fit and handsome. The nurses had speculated that he had been quite the heart-breaker before the shooting. A few of them had even whispered about his six-pack abs and muscular arms, and admired and giggled about another appendage they had noticed while changing the dressing on his wound.

  “No wonder his name is Dante,” Rhonda had murmured ruefully as she pointed to his bare crotch. “A man that fine wielding that thing could certainly drag a girl through hell and back!”

  But Mr. Turner wouldn’t be putting any women through hell or breaking any hearts any time soon
. He remained heavily sedated while his body repaired itself. And unlike the other patients, he’d had few to no visitors in his room.

  Nurse Kelly took the first shift while the rest attended Meredith’s birthday party. She glanced through the glass doors of each hospital room, including Mr. Turner’s, as she walked from the break room to the front desk, carrying her slice of carrot cake. She passed an old woman who gave her a wan smile before entering room 403.

  “Hello, Mrs. O’Shea,” Kelly said, giving her greeting from the doorway.

  “Good afternoon,” Mrs. O’Shea said as she dragged a chair toward the bed to sit next to her husband, who was dying of end-stage lung cancer.

  A minute later, Kelly plopped into her rolling chair and dug into her carrot cake, finishing the entire slice in less than three minutes and licking the remaining icing off the plastic fork tongs and the tips of her fingers. She looked longingly at her empty paper plate. She could use a second slice.

  A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips, she thought, glancing down at her wide hips that were encased in blue scrubs. She had been trying to lose her last ten pounds of baby weight for ages. Plus, she was supposed to be staffing the front desk while the other nurses were at the birthday party.

  But then Kelly ran her tongue over her lips, tasting the remains of the cream cheese icing, and she almost shuddered in ecstasy. She remembered how fluffy the cake itself had been, how the bits of carrot had been so crisp.

  “Just one more,” she mumbled, rising from the chair. “I’ll be quick.”

  With the exception of Mrs. O’Shea, it was dead as a doornail around the ward—no pun intended. None of the patients would miss her.

  It was just seconds after Kelly walked out of the break room and plunged her fork into her second slice of carrot cake that she heard the alarm, a piercing beep to alert them at the nursing station that a patient was in distress. She rushed down the corridor, still holding her plate of cake in one hand and fork in the other, wondering if it was Mrs. Reynolds or poor Mr. O’Shea.

  That’s when she spotted something black jump out of room 406 and flash past her, like a wraith in a horror movie. She screamed and dropped her cake and fork to the floor. It was only after a few blinks that she realized it wasn’t some ghost that had flown out the room, but a person—a living, breathing person dressed head-to-toe in black—hoodie, cap, and sweatpants—who was racing with breakneck speed down the hospital hallway.

  “Hey!” she shouted after him—or her. She couldn’t tell the sex of the person at this distance. “Hey, what were you—”

  Her words died on her lips when the person slammed into the metal doors, shoving them open and disappearing into the adjoining hall. The door slammed shut behind them.

  Kelly stared in shock at the closed door until the alarm shook her out of her daze. She turned back to room 406 and saw a pillow slumped on the linoleum floor. Her eyes raised and she saw Mr. Turner. His head was now tilted to the side instead of sitting forward and upright in its proper position, and it looked like his breathing tube had been partially removed. The white tape below his nose now flapped limply, revealing the peach fuzz above his lip. His mouth hung open like that of a catfish on a slab of ice.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered, feeling the carrot cake and bile rise in her throat as she realized what had happened. She rushed into the room and heard thunderous footsteps behind her as the other nurses and doctors came to assist.

  It looked like someone had tried to kill Dante Turner—again.

  Chapter 1

  Evan

  Evan Murdoch tried not to wince with discomfort as he watched the doctor do his handiwork. He didn’t want to worry his little brother, Terrence, who was already nervous and had already tried to back out of the consultation and fitting twice before Terrence’s girlfriend and Evan had finally talked him into it. But now, watching it less than five feet away from him, Evan was starting to feel put off by the whole procedure. The twelve-by-twelve-foot office was starting to feel stuffy and claustrophobic, and Evan longed to open one of the windows on the other side of the room. But he tamped down that impulse and instead valiantly painted on his best impression of a polite smile as the ocularist fiddled around in Terrence’s eye socket with the piece of plastic that was molded and painted to be a replica of Terrence’s left eye—the eye that was mangled in a car accident nearly five months ago.

  “All right, Terrence,” the technician said, turning Terrence around in his chair and blocking Evan’s view. “The scleral cover shell is now in place. How does it feel?”

  “Uh, okay, I . . . I guess.”

  Evan could hear the apprehension in his brother’s voice.

  “Okay, I want you to open and close your eyes,” the technician said. “Good. Look up . . . Look down . . . Look right.... Now look left, please.” There was another pause. “Does it still feel okay?”

  “Yeah, it feels fine,” Terrence said with a nod.

  Evan leaned forward, trying desperately to see Terrence’s new eye, but having little success. He had a perfect view of the back of his brother’s head, though.

  He needs a haircut, Evan noted.

  “Good. Good! Now you can have a look,” the technician said, extending a small handheld mirror to Terrence. He sat back in his rolling chair and smiled. “What do you think?”

  Terrence held the mirror in front of his face. “Goddamn!” he shouted.

  “What?” Evan asked, finally tired of waiting. He got visions of scenes from old-fashioned movies where the bandages are slowly unwound from around a patient’s head, revealing a new, horrifying face, making the patient scream out in agony. He hopped out of his chair and raced to his brother’s side. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Terrence said, turning to him. “Nothing’s wrong!”

  “Goddamn,” Evan echoed, breaking into a grin.

  It was like the ocularist had given Terrence his eye back; it didn’t look like a replica but like the real thing. Terrence now had two perfect, caramel-colored irises. He had two eyes that winked and shifted simultaneously. Evan would challenge anyone to know which eye was real and which one was not.

  “I know, right?” Terrence laughed. “It looks good.”

  “It doesn’t look good; it looks fucking perfect!” Evan exclaimed.

  “You get a tap for this one, doc,” Terrence said, holding his fist up to the elderly, white-haired man who looked like he could’ve starred in an AARP ad. The technician chuckled, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and gave Terrence a fist bump.

  “I’m glad you like the final product,” the man said.

  “So . . . so that’s it?” Terrence asked, lowering his fist and the mirror. “I can just walk out with it? Just like that?”

  The technician nodded. “Just like that. I’ll send you home with a cleanser and instructions. I’ll probably schedule a follow-up to make sure everything is okay with the new prosthetic, but that’s it. You’re done!”

  “I’m done,” Terrence said softly, and Evan knew instantly he was talking about more than just today’s appointment.

  His younger brother had completed the last step to making a full recovery from his accident. He no longer walked with his cane. Now he no longer had to wear the eye patch over his damaged eye. He had returned to the gym and lost the weight he had put on from sitting alone at home, staring at the television all day and all night, and drinking and eating his way through his depression. He was even no longer seeing a therapist on a weekly basis. His mild depression seemed to have waned; he readily joked and laughed more now than he had in months.

  Evan gazed at his brother and nodded. “You’re done, Terry.”

  * * *

  “Damn, how many times are you going to look at yourself, pretty boy?” Evan asked as Terrence pulled his silver Porsche roadster to a stop at the red light and flipped down his visor for the umpteenth time to gaze in the small mirror at his reflection.

  Terrence chuckled and flipped the visor u
p again. “Come on, man! I just got to the point where I could look at myself and not wince. Give a brotha a break!”

  “I’m just messing with you, Terry.” Evan punched his shoulder playfully. “I’m glad he was able to give you such a good prosthetic eye. You’ve been through a lot. It looks like you’re finally on the comeback.”

  “You sound like C. J.,” Terrence said, referring to his girlfriend. He pulled off when the light turned green. “She said my eye was the last missing puzzle piece.”

  “She’s probably right.”

  Terrence tightened his hold around the leather steering wheel. His smile disappeared. “I’m not sure that she’s . . . well . . . totally happy about it, though. I mean with me getting the prosthesis.”

  “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t she be happy? I thought she talked you into doing it!”

  “She did, but . . . it’s not just the eye. It’s my whole recovery. She told me once that she was worried that when I finally got better, I would . . . that I would go back to my old ways—hooking up with all types of chicks, caring more about money, cars, and clothes than I do about her . . . about us. I told her there’s no chance of that happening. I’m not that guy anymore.”

  Evan could understand why C. J. was worried. Terrence had been the love ’em and leave ’em type for many, many years prior to the accident. And the women he had dated had been nothing like the smart, sensible, plain-Jane girlfriend he had now.

  In the old days, Terrence had seemed disgusted by the idea of love and commitment. Evan had expected his brother to die at the ripe old age of eighty in some sex ranch in Las Vegas with a smile on his face and Viagra in his system. But the car crash had caused Terrence’s life to veer in another direction. Terrence had become introspective and thoughtful. He did seem to be genuinely in love with C. J. But even Evan wondered how long all of this would last.