The Other P-Word Read online

  Table of Contents

  Legal Page

  Title Page

  Book Description

  Dedication

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Epilogue

  New Excerpt

  About the Author

  Publisher Page

  A Totally Bound Publication

  The Other P-Word

  ISBN # 978-1-78430-598-7

  ©Copyright MK Schiller 2015

  Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright May 2015

  Edited by Rebecca Douglas

  Totally Bound Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorized or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2015 by Totally Bound Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN

  Totally Bound Publishing is a subsidiary of Totally Entwined Group Limited.

  Warning:

  This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Totally Burning and a Sexometer of 2.

  In Other Words

  THE OTHER P-WORD

  MK Schiller

  Book three in the In Other Words series

  Suffering from a dark past, he lives his life with passion but no purpose. She planned everything…except him.

  Billie Price has always had a plan for her life. On the surface, it all appears on track. But there has always been something missing. Even though she has a purpose, there is no passion to fuel it. Then she meets a mysterious stranger with a dark past. Except Evan Wright is all kinds of wrong—the tattoo-clad, guitar-strumming, Harley-riding modern day drifter is definitely not the right man for her. Yet she finds herself drawn to him and The Lost Souls’ Club—the eclectic bar where he works. As all her carefully strung plans unravel, Evan is there to comfort her. As their attraction grows, Billie can’t resist the temptation, even though Evan will leave in the fall. At least they have all summer together, not to mention the man knows how to narrate the perfect sex scene for the book she’s writing. But as she crashes into Evan’s world, Billie has to ask herself—can passion prevail when there is no purpose?

  Dedication

  I owe a special thanks to the readers for becoming a part of this family. I hope Billie’s story brings you hearty laughs, a few blushes and a need to reach for your significant other. Thank you to my other family at Totally Bound who have always believed in my work, especially my editor Rebecca Douglas. To my writing group who threw me a life vest when I couldn’t tread water anymore—Shelly, Sage, Heather, Aliza—you’re all kinds of beautiful. To my own family who lived with my chaos—Nix, Pat, Justin—you are the best. To my beta readers—thanks for making Billie and Evan real. A special thanks to Susan who sent me chocolate-covered mangos when I needed them most. To all the people who’ve left reviews—good or bad—thanks for taking the time to do that!

  To everyone who has supported my dream…thank you for reminding me to never go gentle into that good night.

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Drops of Jupiter: Train, Patrick Monahan

  Harley: Harley-Davidson Inc.

  Best Day of My Life: Aaron Accetta, Zachary Barnett, Shep Goodman, David Rublin, Matthew Sanchez, James Shelley

  Gulliver: Jonathan Swift

  Kryptonite: DC Comics

  Louis Vuitton: Louis Vuitton Malletier

  The Devil Wears Prada: Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation

  Chicago Bears: Chicago Bears, NFL

  Louboutin: Christian Louboutin

  Google: Google, Inc.

  About a Girl: Kurt Cobain

  Grey Goose: Bacardi

  Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light: Dylan Thomas

  Bad Day: Daniel Powter

  BMW: Bayerische Motoren Werke AG

  Hot in Herre: Cornell Haynes, Jr., Pharrell Williams, Chad Hugo, Charles L. Brown

  Werewolves of London: LeRoy Marinell, Waddy Wachtel, Warren Zevon

  My Shit’s Fucked Up: Warren Zevon

  Closing Time: Semisonic, Dan Wilson

  Bye Bye Bye: Kristian Lundin, Jake Schulze, Andreas Carlsson

  House Beautiful: Hearst Corporation

  Ben & Jerry’s: Ben & Jerry’s Homemade Holdings, Inc.

  Domino: New Line Cinema/Metropolitan Filmexport

  I Think of You: Rodriguez

  MCAT: American Association of Medical Colleges

  Body and Soul: Edward Heyman, Robert Sour, Frank Eyton, Johnny Green

  Extraordinary Girl: Billie Joe Armstrong

  Amstel Light: Heineken International

  Netflix: Netflix, Inc.

  ESPN: ESPN, Inc.

  Abercrombie: Abercrombie & Fitch

  Botox: Botox

  Three Little Birds: Bob Marley

  Chuck Taylor: Nike, Inc.

  Superman: DC Comics

  Fifty Shades of Grey: E.L. James

  Party in the USA: Jessica Cornish, Lukasz Gottwald, Claude Kelly

  Bob the Builder: Keith Chapman

  A Prayer for Owen Meany: John Irving

  The Godfather: Mario Puzo/Paramount Pictures

  The Notebook: Nicholas Sparks

  The Velveteen Rabbit: Margery Williams

  Spanish Fly: Eddie Van Halen

  Sunshine of Your Love: Jack Bruce, Pete Brown, Eric Clapton

  Born to Run: Bruce Springsteen

  Whistle: Tramar Dillard, David Glass, Marcus Killian, Justin Franks, Breyan Isaac, Antonio Mobley

  We Owned the Night: Charle
s Kelley, Dave Haywood, Dallas Davidson

  The Sex is Good: Jared Weeks, Jason Null, Skidd Mills

  Guess Who: Columbia Pictures

  Pulp Fiction: Miramax Films

  Seventeen Years Locust: Rob Zombie, John 5, Scott Humphrey

  New Kid in Town: Don Henley, Glenn Frey, J.D. Souther

  Touch of Grey: Jerry Garcia, Robert Hunter

  iPod: Apple, Inc.

  I Will Follow You Into the Dark: Ben Gibbard

  Free Bird: Allen Collins, Ronnie Van Zant

  Sex and Candy: John Wozniak

  Killian’s: Molson Coors/Heineken

  We Are Young: Nate Ruess, Andrew Dost, Jack Antonoff, Jeffrey Bhasker

  Packers: Packers, NFL

  Girl Scouts: Girl Scouts of America

  Heisman Trophy: Heisman Memorial Trophy Award

  Buick: General Motors Company

  Stetson: John B. Stetson Company

  Candy Shop: Curtis Jackson

  Sweet Home Alabama: Ed King, Gary Rossington, Ronnie Van Zant

  Counting Stars: Tim Pagnotta

  Bittersweet Symphony: Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, Richard Ashcroft

  Disney World: The Walt Disney Company

  Porsche 911: Porsche AG

  Keep Me in Your Heart for a While: Warren Zevon

  Kool-Aid: Kraft Foods

  The Three Stooges: The Three Stooges

  We Can’t Stop: Mike L. Williams II, Pierre Ramon Slaughter, Timothy Thomas, Theron Thomas, Miley Cyrus, Douglas Davis, Ricky Walters

  You Found Me: Isaac Slade, Joe King

  Single Ladies: Christopher ‘Tricky’ Stewart, Terius ‘The-Dream’ Nash, Thaddis Harrell, Beyoncé Knowles

  We Are Family: Nile Rodgers, Bernard Edwards

  WhatsApp: Facebook, Inc.

  Joe Dirt: Columbia Pictures

  Chapter One

  I first laid eyes on him in a cemetery and if that wasn’t an ominous sign, I don’t know what is. My stalking, leering, checking out—whatever it was—disturbed me. But not enough to stop searching for him among the granite markers rising from the earth. I usually found him. Either we were on the same schedule or he visited so often it was unavoidable.

  He wore a gray hoodie, dark jeans with rips at the knees and what looked like a vintage bomber jacket. His hair, thick and disheveled, covered his neck and curled at the ends, its color somewhere between sand and sun. Broad shoulders and a confident stride made watching him walk dangerously enticing. He paused for a brief moment. My skin prickled as his head turned my way with a stare that lingered a second too long to be coincidental. I dropped my head, rearranging the baby pink roses on Lorraine’s plot, sure they resembled the color on my cheeks. I gripped the stems, ashamed to be caught by Tall, Blond and Brooding, and at such an inappropriate place.

  “Well, Lorraine, I got another rejection today.” I fished the crumpled letter from my jacket. I came to see her every time I got a letter—a habit I desperately wanted to break. “This one is personalized, at least, but it still tore my heart. ‘Dear Miss Price, While your work is enjoyable, I didn’t connect to your characters. I felt an overall lack of passion in your writing. As I’m sure you know, passion is the measure of a good romance’.”

  I smoothed the paper with my hand before folding it into a neat square. “Then there are some other things about this being a subjective industry and all. How could she say I’m not passionate? And worse, is it true? A writer who isn’t passionate is like the cobbler with no shoes, or the dentist with no teeth.” I stared at the etched letters chiseled into the steely granite headstone. “I once read you wrote eighty stories that were rejected before your first break. I don’t know how you did it.”

  The roar of a motorcycle interrupted the solitude. I allowed myself another glance toward the gravel road where he was speeding off into the horizon.

  A few moments later, I stood, wiping the dirt from my jeans then taking the sufficiently decayed peach-colored flowers from last week’s visit.

  “Until next time, Lorraine.”

  I headed down the path myself as clouds curtained the sky, drowning out the sun with shades of bleak.

  I made it to the Third Street stop, preparing myself for the three-hour bus ride that would take only an hour by automobile. I didn’t mind the public transportation, though. People carved out time as if it was made of boundless clay, filling every second until no white space remained. The time to think had become a peculiar pastime made for odd people like myself. That was what I did during the long commutes to visit Lorraine. The first drops of rain flicked against me, mocking my good intentions.

  It wasn’t so bad. I turned my face toward it and closed my eyes in appreciation of the light mist. Unfortunately, the sky opened and doused me in retaliation.

  Shit! Here I was at one of the only bus stops that didn’t have a covered seating area. I held my knapsack above my head as I surveyed my surroundings. My salvation lay in the shop across the street that boasted pictures of whimsical cups on its door and checkered curtains. The aroma of whipped cream, strong coffee and fresh baked pastries beckoned me with each step. If I wasn’t running toward it, I might have floated like a loony cartoon character.

  I wrung out my wet tresses, twisting my blonde hair into a tight bun as I waited in line. I blotted myself with napkins in a lame attempt to dry off while I waited for my order. The tables overflowed with people who, like me, sought shelter. Only one vacant seat remained.

  Where he was.

  His hair was damp, not drenched like mine. A helmet sat on the seat across from him. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and was flipping pages of a newspaper. For a moment I lost myself in him, until someone bumped my shoulder, nearly spilling my drink.

  The large-mouthed cup complete with saucer chattered as I walked around the tight space.

  “May I sit here?” I asked timidly.

  He tilted his head and smiled, pushing the vacant chair out with his foot. Observing him at close range was worse than viewing him from afar. His eyes had the same luminosity as melting chocolate. A noticeable white scar on the chiseled planes of his jaw made him look dangerous. The boyish smile that elicited the slightest dimple disarmed me. But it was the natural tan he sported that invoked my curiosity. It wasn’t orange enough to be fake, but the weather in Chicago hadn’t reached tanning levels yet.

  I set down my tray and picked up his helmet. It was heavier than I’d imagined. He took it from me.

  “Thank you. The other seats are taken,” I explained. Although a mere glance could have confirmed my statement, he just nodded.

  He snapped his fingers and pointed to me. “Graveyard girl,” he said, a trace of a southern twang coloring his words.

  I tilted my head, trying to keep my smile from reaching ridiculous heights. “Is that what you call me?”

  “In my head, but now that I say it out loud, it sounds creepy.”

  “Yeah, it does.” I chuckled, holding out my hand. “Billie Price.”

  He leaned over slightly. The scent of soap and peppermint was even more pleasing than the coffee. His smile held the lure of temptation—the kind of expression that made ordinary girls feel exceptional.

  “Billie?”

  “I know it’s a strange name for a girl.”

  “I like it. It sounds southern. Pleased to meet you, Billie Price. The name’s Evan Wright.” He tightened his grip on my hand. I always thought my hands were awkwardly large, but in that moment, my right hand looked tiny, almost dainty, clasped against his powerful one. He flipped my wrist, kissing the underside of it, causing a shiver that travelled down my spine straight to my toes.

  “That doesn’t happen to me every day.” My voice sounded unnaturally squeaky. Did they pump helium through the vents? “Maybe it should.”

  His trailed his thumb across my wrist before he released our connection. I shrugged off my jacket. His gaze lowered slightly, causing my skin to tingle as if his eyes were touching me.

  I gulped my coffee, wishin
g I’d ordered it iced, because despite the chill in the air, steam rose from my pores.

  “May I ask where you’re from, Evan?”

  “Everywhere. Anywhere.”

  “That’s cryptic.”

  He nodded, his grin stretching. “There’s no mystery here. Just truth.”

  I doubted that.

  “If you want specifics—I was born in Alabama, but we moved to Chicago my freshman year of high school. The accent never swayed.”

  Thank goodness for that. My sisters and I often argued the merits of a good inflection on a man. Marley preferred the British sound while Stevie insisted that an Aussie accent did it for her. Personally, I’d always loved the slow, sexy drawl of a southern man, especially when it hit the notes of rich and smoky—slow poured honey over hard whiskey.

  “I just got back into town.” He closed the paper, running his finger along its edges.

  “From where?”

  “Miami.”

  Well, that explained the tan.

  He took out a glinting copper coin, rolling it between his fingers. “What are you drinking?” he asked, staring at my cup.

  “Grande, Quad, Non-fat, One-Pump, No-Whip Mocha.”

  “What’s a quad?”

  “Four shots of espresso.”

  “Shit, you’re an addict.”

  “Yes, I’m waiting for an appropriate twelve-step program.”

  “The first step is admitting you’ve got a problem, so you’ve got that covered.”

  “True. What are you drinking?”

  “Coffee. Black. I try to limit my order to a single adjective.”

  I hummed along to the instrumental version of Drops of Jupiter that echoed softly from the speakers, thankful for the distracting comfort of a melody. “I have very specific tastes.”

  “A girl who knows what she wants.”

  “Yes.”

  “And what is that?”

  His question took me by surprise. He was a stranger asking me something very personal. But then again, I was the one who’d left the door open, hoping he’d step inside.