Revealing Bella (The Moran Family Book 4) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Other books by Alexis James

  Copyright ©2017 by Alexis James. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or author.

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  First Edition First Printing

  Cover: Cover To Cover Designs

  Editor: Maxann Dobson, The Polished Pen

  Formatter: Champagne Formats

  ISBN: 978-0-9980618-7-0

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Other books by Alexis James

  For all the strong, brave women who have survived and have risen above tragedy.

  Your voices will never be silent.

  My eyes slowly drift open to gaze around the room.

  I don’t feel so good.

  My heart thumps frantically in my chest when I realize I have no idea where I am. A few things look familiar, but I’m definitely not in my own dorm room. On the wall I recognize a pennant sporting the school colors of the college I attend. There’s a football jersey like the many that traipse around campus day after day. The ball cap that sits half on half off the dresser looks oddly familiar too. But the room itself? Try as I might, I can’t recall ever being here before.

  Noises come from outside the closed bedroom door. Lots of male laughter and some over-enthusiastic shouting. Some giggling too, though that is decidedly female. With all the loud techno music, it sounds like a party. Whatever the case may be, this is not my usual scene. I’m much too shy and naïve to ever be a part of this raucous crowd.

  My stomach rolls violently when I sit up. I slam my hand over my mouth, as if the gesture will halt the surge of vomit waiting at the back of my throat. The sheet slides down my body and cool air hits my bare skin. A cursory look down and I simultaneously cringe and groan. I’m completely naked.

  Another wave of nausea. Forcing myself to stand, I look around for my clothes. I stumble around the unfamiliar room trying to shake off the dizziness. My shorts are tossed onto the floor, panties nowhere in sight. I locate my T-shirt over the arm of a chair, my bra on the opposite side of the bed. Whatever happened in this room—and I have a fairly good idea what that was—I sure as hell don’t remember much of it.

  It started with a beer. I know this because I can still taste the bitter residue on my tongue, and my shirt reeks of it as well. That beer was followed by another and countless others followed. Somewhere in the middle of it all there was dancing and a whole bunch of flirting, if I recall correctly. I vaguely remember switching to tequila shots on a dare, and that’s where all the fuzzy memories begin.

  He had blond hair. He was cute, but the majority of the guys I know from school are. He was tall—really, really tall. That’s the thing though … he’s not someone I know well. Or is he?

  His face swims in my memory as I tug my clothes on with shaky fingers, wondering yet again what happened to my panties. I’m just pulling my shirt over my head when the door opens and in walks a tall, blond guy with a red Solo cup in hand and a cocky grin on his face.

  He looks me over, eyes centered directly on my boobs, as he strolls toward me. “Hey, sexy, wanna go another round?”

  The sound of his voice sends the vomit up my throat again. Swallowing it back takes more energy than I can muster. The scent of his skin, a nasty combination of sweat and what I assume must be sex, permeates my nostrils. Instantly, a freight train of recognition slams into my brain.

  Groping hands.

  Hurting hands.

  No … no … no.

  Wet lips on mine.

  The scent of tequila and beer in the air.

  No… no … please, no.

  A tearing sound … my panties. Then my legs are being shoved apart.

  “Just go with it,” he said. “You’ll love it.”

  In my memory I hear a scream then a muffled sob as a large sweaty hand is held over my mouth.

  “Just go with it. You’ll love it.”

  Teeth clamp down on my nipple. Then I’m being ripped in two.

  No … no … you’re hurting me. No!

  “Shut the fuck up,” he snaps as I cry harder.

  With each thrust of his hips I know the truth: I’ll never be the same. He’s taking something from me that I can never get back. My innocence. My hope. My future.

  My soul.

  I’m used to working twelve-hour shifts. It’s what I know, what I thrive on, what I live for to escape what others call life. Nursing fulfills me in a way nothing else ever has or presumably ever will. It also serves the best purpose of all: it keeps my brain engaged and focused on the task at hand. Doing my job leaves no time for my own personal crap. Twelve-hour shifts leaves little time to dwell or worry or plan a future I’ll never have. My focus is and always will be my job. It’s my salvation.

  So why do I feel like I want to sleep for a week? I’ve pulled my fair share of extra days and double shifts over the past few years. Why the hell is this week any different?

  My feet feel like lead as I trudge across the parking garage to my car. Just as I yank the door open, my phone buzzes repeatedly alerting me to an incoming call. Shoving the key into the ignition, I swipe my thumb across the screen and answer with an exhausted hello.

  “Hey.”

  I roll my eyes at Roman’s greeting. He’s such a guy. “Hey yourself.” I can hear the exhaustion in my voice, the wrung-out nothingness that remains from yet another endless day.

&n
bsp; “Just get off work?”

  He knows me so well. Too well sometimes, though he’s very good about keeping his opinions and concerns to himself. I suppose that’s the job of a big brother. Thank God all three of my brothers are so busy with their own lives and loves, they have little time to fixate on mine. Since Roman is the closest thing I have to a friend, I tend to give him a little more slack when he hovers.

  “Yeah. Just heading home.”

  “Want to stop by the house? Have dinner with us?”

  I know exactly what he’s doing even though he thinks he’s being sly. He keeps tabs on me as much if not more than he does with his own teenage daughter—a daughter who officially became his last week after an exhausting adoption process. Roman nor Emmy needed paperwork—or blood relation for that matter—to confirm what they’ve both always known: they will always be father and daughter. Still, I think he’s more than relieved to have the legalities out of the way.

  As much as I adore him, my new niece, and my soon to be sister-in-law, I don’t look forward to an evening of watching the three of them bask in their happiness. I’d never begrudge any of my siblings the chance at a future, but having to sit back and witness all that I will never have is a little much at times. Besides, I think as I put the car into reverse and put the phone on speaker, I’ll see the entire clan at Sunday dinner like I do most every week.

  “No thanks. Give my love to your girls.”

  “You sure? We’d love to have you.”

  Damn. I love this man so much and I hate to disappoint him. He sure as hell has never disappointed me. “I’ll come by next week. I promise.”

  He chuckles because we both know I’ll more than likely back out. “Yeah, okay. Next week it is. See ya, Sis. Love you.”

  Warmth spreads in my chest. “Love you too.”

  After a quick stop at the grocery store for a half dozen TV dinners and a six-pack of beer, I head for home. Rain beats down on the roof of the car, a gentle staccato to the accompanying music from the stereo. It’s a warm evening like most here in Miami. The air is thick with moisture. Having lived here my entire life, I’m used to the humidity, though I’ll never be pleased with what it does to my hair. Thankfully, my job requires I keep it pulled back, which hides the springy, dark curls and occasional frizziness.

  With full hands, I dash from the car, across the parking lot and into my building, shaking off the wetness as I step onto the elevator. Minutes later, I’m walking into my apartment.

  I live in a structure like many in this area. Thirty-some-odd floors of one and two-bedroom apartments, all relatively the same layout, same amenities, same amazing view of the water. I’m spoiled, I know that, but I feel I deserve to have a nice place to come home to each night, especially since I have little else to call my own.

  Similar to Roman’s old apartment, I have tile and granite and stainless-steel appliances, a wide bank of windows and a glass slider that opens out to a spacious balcony. What my place may be lacking in actual living area is more than made up for any time I look out the window. Sure, I’m taking my chances being this close to the water in a place that routinely sees hurricane action every year, but I’m no stranger to tragedy and death and in my years of nursing, I have developed a pretty thick skin. I’m of the mindset that when your number is up, it’s up. Worrying about what might happen is a complete waste of time.

  While my Lean Cuisine heats, I pad into the bedroom to change. Like the rest of my apartment, this space is free of clutter and very simple. A white comforter covers the queen-sized mattress and two throw pillows in a deep shade of blue are thrown on top for a pop of color. There’s a vibrant throw-rug covering the tile floor and the dark mahogany furniture is minimal. No unnecessary knickknacks are lying around, just a fine layer of dust to graze each surface. I should try to clean on my next day off.

  The microwave dings just as I pull on an oversized shirt and cotton shorts. Cracking my neck from side to side, I consider that I should probably spend an hour or two in the ‘fitness center’ before I turn in for the night. The gym in my building is minimal, made up of a few pieces of equipment and some nasty mismatched barbells, but it serves a purpose for folks like me who just need to get in some cardio. Usually I work out at a gym a few miles away, but since I can’t seem to shake this exhaustion tonight, I’ll settle for what’s close.

  I’m finishing my lackluster meal when my phone buzzes. A quick glance at the screen and I’m grinding my teeth. I have no idea why Damian continues to pursue me. For crying out loud, we ended whatever it was we had over six months ago. I’m the one who put a stop to our on-again, off-again relationship. At the time he seemed neither surprised nor disappointed I was ending things. As I learned over the year and a half we sporadically dated, Damian knows how to shield his emotions well. I suppose being a heart surgeon could have something to do with it, but he’d be cold and intense even if he wasn’t dealing with life and death on a daily basis. I just don’t think he has the capacity to get truly close to anyone.

  It’s no surprise I sought out a man like him. Once I was finally over the shock of being violated, I realized the power I had over men. Or rather, the power my body had. Sex was my weapon, control my motive. The more sex I had, the stronger it made me feel. The choices and decisions were all mine.

  But after years of one-night stands and very, very bad choices with far too many men, I realized my loose morals were going to get me in trouble one way or another. Damian fulfilled the part of me I felt required to project to the rest of the outside world—someone happy and content. He made no demands on my time. Let me traipse in and out of his bed at will. He was a convenient arm piece for family get-togethers and someone to share a meal with once in a while. We might have enjoyed many rounds of hot sex, and it’s fair to say he taught me a lot about finding pleasure with a man, but eventually our mutual inability to let go anywhere other than the bedroom seemed to always leave an air of disappointment between us. He walked away more than once with a “why do I even bother?” look.

  Someone like Damian DeAngelo sure as hell shouldn’t be a disappointment. The man is a walking, talking piece of art: hard, sculpted body, chiseled jaw, intense dark eyes. Far too handsome to be a doctor, that’s for sure. But as good looking as he is, he’s equally intense and off-putting. He’s incredibly hard on the staff at the hospital, barking at nurses and orderlies earning him the nickname Doctor DeAsshat. I snickered the first time I heard it but the moment I laid eyes on the man, I knew he’d earned his name well.

  It’s embarrassing to admit how little I know about the man I dated. In fact, there’s more I don’t know about him than I care to admit. We had a few nice conversations, laughed a time or two, but we mostly kept one another company because we felt like we had to rather than any real need to. He’s the strong, silent type, unless he’s with a patient; then he lowers his guard and some of his humanity is revealed. With me he kept things minimalistic, which is exactly what I prefer.

  Opening the text, I snicker. In true Damian fashion, it’s brief and to the point. And only because I’ve spent so much time with him am I able to read between the lines: he needs to get laid.

  I must say I admire his balls. He somehow still believes that after all this time I’m going to spread my legs for him. Hardly. He may be decent in that department, but getting past the layers of bullshit to the real man beneath is exhausting. I suppose if I were the type of girl who really wanted to dig deep into what makes him tick, I’d relent. But I’m not, so I don’t. It’s better for both of us if I just let it go.

  Quickly deleting the text without responding, I rise from my spot on the couch, gather up my dinner dishes, and move into the kitchen. I want a hot shower and bed, but what I need—or rather what I expect from myself—is a good, hard workout. Tiredness will ensure me a few hours of sleep at the most; exhaustion, the kind that comes from depleting my body of every bit of energy, will guarantee me a peaceful night’s sleep. It’s easy to silence those ghosts when
my brain is too tired to function.

  More than determined, I hastily change into workout gear then take the elevator to the main floor. At this time of night, the fitness center is empty—not that I believe it gets much use to begin with. Most twenty-somethings like me belong to gyms that are open all night, and the older folks in the building will typically walk on the beach in the morning to get in their exercise.

  Climbing onto the treadmill, I set the running program and shove in my earbuds. It would be so easy to feel sorry for myself. A lonely woman doing the same thing each and every day. I’ve never once allowed myself a moment of self-pity. I live this way because I have to, because it is what keeps me sane. Stepping outside those perfectly drawn lines is a recipe for disaster, a lesson I learned all too well in college. The days of the free-spirited Isabella Moran are long past. Rigidity, order, normalcy—that’s what I strive for, what I crave. Letting loose and being free has only brought me heartache, fear, and regret. No matter what else I do, I must remain steadfast and resolute. My life is non-negotiable.

  “Happy Birthday, old man,” I say with a grin.

  Roman sends me a narrow-eyed look. “I’m not old.”

  Sabrina, his pretty blond fiancée, slides her arm around his waist and snuggles close. “Don’t pout. We’re here to celebrate.”

  Roman grins down at her, eyes warm with affection. “Yes, dear.” He’s learning fast, I think to myself as he drops a kiss on her lips then spends a good long moment just looking into her eyes.

  Watching their easy exchange should make me want the same for myself. It doesn’t. In fact, all the love in the room makes me queasy. My saving grace is that my nephew Thomas keeps me occupied. And that I let Emmy bend my ear about high school.

  Pulling myself away from the love bugs, I stroll into the kitchen and help myself to a glass of wine. Mama is rattling something off in Spanish to my oldest brother, Cruz, and God bless Mia, his wife. She just stands there and nods, even though everyone knows she can’t understand one word.

  I make myself scarce, taking my glass into the living room and settling onto the carpet where my brother Marco and his girlfriend, Amita, are fawning over baby Thomas.