Take Me Over: A Protector Enemies-to-Lovers Romance Read online

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Victoria

  2. Victoria

  3. Brenton

  4. Brenton

  5. Victoria

  6. Victoria

  7. Brenton

  8. Victoria

  9. Victoria

  10. Brenton

  11. Victoria

  12. Victoria

  13. Brenton

  14. Victoria

  15. Victoria

  16. Brenton

  17. Victoria

  18. Brenton

  19. Victoria

  20. Brenton

  Take Me Home (Sample)

  Also by Summer Brooks

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  Prologue

  November 11, 2008

  Brenton,

  When I was a little girl, my parents used to tell me all kinds of fairy tales. In most of them, there was always a damsel in distress, an unwanted admirer, and a prince, whose only goal in his entire life was to rescue his princess and ride off into a happily ever after.

  Sometimes my mother would tell me the stories. Sometimes, my father. However, the tales always ended the same.

  The prince would rescue the princess from her treacheries and with his journey toward her, he would discover an undeniable truth about himself.

  He would discover the lengths to which he’d go for his woman. He’d track her down and, if necessary, would strike down all who’d opposed him, challenged him, or dared to step foot in his way. The hindrance of his journey was the very same sin that he could not bring himself to forgive.

  They’d tell me these stories and I’d be off to bed—wistfully wondering when my own “prince charming” would come for me. No matter how many years had passed, how old I’d gotten or how much I’d experienced—I kept hope that my prince would come and find me. In that hope, I met my own worst enemy.

  Fairytales don’t do well for pubescent teens or young adults who’ve discovered their own significance. I quickly learned that, though there was no actual Prince Charming (how silly I was to believe it). However, in place of that disappointment, I put whomever I thought could fit the bill most closely. It’s led to some mistakes.

  For most of my life, I’ve wandered this earth believing myself to be a princess—or at the very least, a modern-day version—like a Kardashian or a Hilton. For all that time that I’d spent in delusion, my ego grew alongside my impatience.

  That all stopped when I met you.

  When I’m with you, I feel my entire sense of being melt away. It leaves nothing behind but the beating heart that I’ve refused you so many times. The pulse of a mad woman—in a desperate search for something that she already has.

  I know how you feel about me. I’m writing you now, because I feel the same. You helped me realize that I don’t need a white horse and carriage (though, it’d be nice). I don’t want the stuck-up metro-sexual that all the movies tell us that we need. I don’t want the air-headed jock.

  I want you, Brenton. I want your laugh. Your smile. Your studious gaze. I want my best friend back. I’m sorry that it took so long for me to realize just how badly I’d needed you.

  I don’t know how else to apologize to you for everything that’s happened. I don’t know whether or not you even want to see me again. I hope that you do, but I understand if you don’t.

  I’ll leave my information with the hospital. If you’d like me to come by, all you have to do is say the word and I’m there.

  If not, then don’t say anything.

  Please say something.

  Yours Always,

  Victoria.

  It was dark. The last words that he could remember saying were the same as they’d been the previous day. They’d been the same for the better part of a week.

  “Please stop!” The words echoed in his mind like the constant harangue of his campus clock tower. “Stop!” he screamed. “Please stop!”

  Fluttering his eyes open, a picture began to form after the sheet of blinding light had nearly seared them shut once more. The haze of colors and invisible lines waded as a woman’s voice responded to his cries.

  “Relax, baby. It’s okay. I promise...You’re safe.” A maze of brunette curls dangled in front of her face as she leaned in to be seen. “Another nightmare?”

  He hadn’t the breadth of vocabulary to answer. Not yet. That would come as the conversation continued. Committing to his silence, he pat his hands against the mattress—an attempt to remember anything. This time, he’d retrieved an envelope that he couldn’t even begin to decipher.

  “What’s this?” Brenton Fox asked as he awoke from his Xanax induced coma. His wounds were severe—necessitating several surgical procedures, gallons of medication, and more patience than either of his parents had been willing to spare.

  “It's a letter, honey. From one of your classmates...” Ms. Fox said, hoping to God that her husband wouldn’t yell at the doctors upon their next arrival. “Isn’t that nice?”

  Her smile was cold and clawed its way up her cheeks as the wrinkles in her forehead deepened and strained to remain steady. The room was unfamiliar though, at a glance, it looked to be his.

  The guest chairs were neatly aligned and shrouded in his clothing. A book bag swung from the rim of the bed—his favorite color and material. He’d even known the pair in the room as “mom” and “dad,” though he couldn’t quite grasp a memory of them.

  It wasn’t long before the hospital bed and oximeter attached to his index finger gave it away.

  “Am I sick?” Brenton asked as the beeping beside him grew faster. “What’s wrong with me?”

  Holding back his urge to scream, Brenton fought to manage a single thought without it being met with the veritable brick wall of nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  “What’s wrong with me!” he said again, this time, loud enough to draw attention. He wasn’t quite sure it’s what he wanted. But, he didn’t know what else to do.

  “Answer me!”

  “Brenton, calm down!” The man known as “dad” barked in return as the doorknob to his hospital room began to hop and jump despite the lock. “Look what you’ve done.” The balding man (who looked like him) continued as he stormed to the wooden door and turned the lock,

  “Is everything alright in here?"

  This man was wearing a white coat and looked to know a thing or two about the situation. He was silver haired but facially young—for an instant, Brenton’s heartbeat calmed.

  “Everything’s fine,” Mr. Fox urged. “There’s no need for intervention here.”

  “Well,” The doctor continued, “...why don’t I have a look?”

  He walked in like the hospital had been named after him—with the kind of smile that comes with a fat check and streak of narcissism. Brenton hated him already. “How are you feeling, kiddo?”

  How else was he to answer?

  “Like shit.”

  “Well...” The doctor shuddered, almost as if Brenton’s tone had embarrassed him. “...there aren’t many other ways to feel when you’ve had both of your legs broken.”

  “What!”

  “Relax...You’ll walk again. Hell, at your age, you’ll be running marathons by next summer.”

  The feeling was like showing up late, to your own funeral, and still having nothing to say. All at once, the reality of Brenton’s life flashed before his eyes in one fell swoop. From his birth to that very moment in bed.

  “Mom...” Brenton squealed as he looked down at his shattered bones and then to her. “Can we go home? Please.”

  Suddenly, her wrinkles had looked even more miserable. “We wo
uld Brenton but...”

  “I’ll explain, Ms. Fox,” the doctor intervened. “Wouldn’t want to confuse him.”

  “Yes,” Ms. Fox submitted.

  Fuck this guy, Brenton thought.

  “You see Brenton, there was an accident a few days ago...”

  “It was no fucking accident!” Mr. Fox barked.

  “Charles! Please.”

  “This man’s a god damn crook!”

  “He’s trying to help our son!”

  “...Anyway,” the silver haired man continued—now at a whisper. “When you came to us your bones were all but dust. You’d had several lacerations along the length of your back and parts of your face. Whatever happened, you’re lucky to be alive.”

  The doctor dropped his head down to a clipboard that seemed to be attached to his forearm. The doctor continued. “I must warn you, this will be a process. But, with the right attitude and a little effort, you’ll get through this.”

  “What he needs is to find that son of a bitch who did this to him.”

  A cough. “Mr. Fox, what your son needs is rest and full support from his family and friends.”

  “I... I” Brenton stuttered. “I don’t think I have any.”

  “Nonsense,” Ms. Fox intervened. “Someone was nice enough to writer you a letter. Now-a-days that must mean you’re pretty special to someone.”

  “I can’t see it,” Brenton answered, holding the envelope close to his face. He’d only been able to make out the letter “V.”

  “It’s all blurry,” he continued.

  “Your son’s vision should return to normal in a few weeks,” The doctor interrupted. “What he needs now, is your full support.”

  “And what he doesn’t need,” Mr. Fox sniped, “...is any contact with that freaking girl. She’s done enough damage as it is.”

  In the same breath as his repulsion, Mr. Fox knabbed the envelope from between Brenton’s fingers. “You’re better without her,” and proceeded to shred the last bit of evidence that Brenton had to his life prior to that afternoon.

  The following day, the ripping sound would echo in his mind, alongside the same two words.

  “Please stop.”

  It all felt like a bad dream.

  1

  Victoria

  The lights were dim. The classroom sized bar was filled from end to end with drunkards of all kinds and varieties—each slowly creeping toward their preferred level of inebriation.

  Four concave lights swung overhead—aligned with the length of the ceiling. Their golden hue gave the entire scene something of a dream state feel—like a casino.

  There was no time.

  No worries.

  No anything. Just what you’d expect and possibly, the trouble that most of us had gone there looking for in the first place.

  I, myself, was on a one-woman kamikaze mission to get as drunk as humanly possible—with the hopes that I’d gain the nerve to call out of work the next day.

  Maybe even quit.

  But then again, my life hadn’t been that simple in a long time.

  “I’m serious, Vicky. You have too much of this crap, you’ll wind up with a baby that looks like one of the losers in here,”—Milton. He was a sixty-eight-year old degenerate, with a striking resemblance to Sam Jackson.

  As of then, he was my closest friend.

  He owned that dump, Shaky’s Bar, and has since his father had left it to him some years ago.

  Shaky’s wasn’t exactly the kind of place with an “A” in the window or a host of bullshit certificates deeming them “worthy”. But, it was a quaint little hole in the wall where a girl could get as donkey-faced drunk as she’d wanted—without much more fuss than the dusty old man would give. At that time in my life, it was the closest thing that I’d had to paradise.

  “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” I answered. “Besides, don’t you have bigger things to worry about than who I let in and out of my vagina?”

  “Whoa...” his tone and forehead skin retreated in tandem as I shot him the look of death. We’d done this conversational dance before. By my count, every night since we’d met. He was like the oppressed father-figure that I’d never had.

  It didn't hurt that he could mix a hell of a drink as well. “Watch it there, young lady. As much as I like you, I have no problem at all kicking an asshole out of my bar.”

  “Oh, eat a dick, Milty...” I said, without even realizing that I’d been speaking. The expression on his face was enough to snap me out of my evil mood...momentarily.

  Admittedly, I was a little worse for wear and had been for the better part of a month. While most people were hanging their Christmas lights and stars of David, I was running. Running from my thoughts. My job. My life. Running from it all and seeking solace in the bottom of a bottle.

  It was never my thing. Still isn’t, I guess. I just liked the feeling of being far, far, away.

  Milton was no more than the messenger of good drinks and bad advice. He didn’t deserve my attitude. I think he knew that my issue wasn’t with him. He should have at least. I’d been almost exclusively bitching to him about my problems from that first sip from one of his scuffed glasses.

  “...You don’t have to snap at me, woman.” He said. “I’m just an old-school fellow trying to keep a gal safe.”

  “And, you can do that with any other woman...But not to me...” He slammed my drink down in front of me, without even bothering to use a coaster (so I knew that he’d been particularly peeved) and turned his back on me like I’d just spit in his lazy eye.

  I suppose that I had, in some way.

  It’s not like it made the drink taste any differently.

  I’d have to apologize to him before the night was out.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate his efforts. More so, I’d just gotten into the habit of pushing away anyone who’d showed even the slightest sign of interest. Things were...less complicated, that way. Dealing with a girl like me could put the average man in a world of hurt. To that point, Milton should’ve considered himself lucky that no one had shot up the place.

  Even still, a bit of me died when I’d seen how taken aback he was. I promised myself that I’d tone down the attitude—even if it was just with this one kind man, who’d made sure I gotten home safe every night. I wanted to be better. I just wasn’t sure how. With every breath that I took, things just seemed more hopeless. I think that it’d started to show.

  I’d grown far beyond my man-eating days. Now, this body, that was once fit as a pearl necklace—had gotten bloated and frumpy. I’d done all that I could to combat the treachery of time, but there’s only so much that a girl could do when she works twelve-hour days and spends her nights wide awake—scared shitless that one day karma would come swinging its righteous noose.

  I’ve made a few mistakes.

  I’m not proud of any of them.

  There are few worse feelings in this world than regret. It’s like a bottomless tomb where all of your earthly comforts and compromises go to die—if only to mock the fact that you’d ever had them.

  “Victoria? Victoria Mills?” The voice was confident—if a bit raspy and called for me like I was at the front of a draft line. I was consumed with that same death-defying anxiety that I’d used to get back in college—when the teacher would call on me, knowing that I didn’t have the answers.

  “Yes,” I answered soft but firm—the only option for a lone woman who, may or may not, have been sipping on her fourth tall glass of long island iced tea. It always behooves a pacifist to feign belonging in the devil’s den. It’s a lesson that my mother taught me, as well as one that I’d had the misfortune of learning first hand.

  “Holy crap! Is it you?” he said.

  The voice was still fairly unfamiliar but with its heavy bass and pointed use of the consonants in my name, it was obvious that it was familiar with me. I slid my drink a few inches away and dropped a hand into my purse—where a fresh bottle of mace had been
waiting weeks for me fondle its trigger.

  I’m a nervous woman by nurture. Any girl from a big city would be.

  It didn’t help that it’d been far past midnight at a less than reputable bar in the seedier part of East Harlem.

  There were rumors that the area was no place for a girl like me (or most others for that matter). However, with the steady rise of gentrification, soft-souls like myself had been among the first to engage in the dying society of bright lights, fresh paint, and mounting homelessness.

  The wonder of New York City.

  I guess, to some degree, I was there to make myself feel better about the week I’d had, or rather, the weeks to come. In any event, I wasn’t thrilled to have attracted a male caller. I’d looked like shit and I’d just pissed off the one man in there who’d have given his life for mine.

  “Victoria!” The man waved as he called again—piercing his way through the crowd as he balanced a bottle of beer in each hand—periodically taking sips to strengthen his resolve.

  Milton noticed, and made it his business not to intervene. Damn, I thought, I deserve that.

  To avoid the swarm of the would-be prince charming—who'd no doubt jump at the chance to defend a woman’s honor (in exchange for her body), I shot the stranger a smile and looked back at my nearly empty glass.

  “Milton,” I called. He didn’t answer. I deserved that too.

  My stranger approached the bar after several moments of staring me down and shifting back and forth from an enticing grin to a seductive smile. It’s almost as if he’d wanted me to watch him drunkenly stumble through the crowd of like-minded ne’er-do-wells and outcasts.

  He was odd. But not for the reason that the rest of us were. This man, clearly didn’t belong. Trust me, for that to be true at Shaky’s, was saying something.