Brand Me (Imagine Ink Book 2) (31 page)

T
hank
you for reading this book. If you loved reading about Tori & Michael as much as I loved writing about them, let your voice be heard by leaving a
review
. It is not only an amazing gift for an author, but it’s a hella useful tool for other readers.

R
ead
on for a peek into IRREVOCABLY MINE, Imagine Ink 3.

I
t’s fucking
déjà vu all over again
, Big Dax mused with a reflective sigh.

Me, sitting here eye-humping Stacy; her, pretending not to notice; the rest of this patchwork family that I fucking love stupid, blind to it all, as usual.

His hungry gaze devoured her from the top of her platinum head to the four-inch spikes of her red-soled heels but he somehow managed to catch snippets of the conversations taking place around him.

Gus was seated to his right, debating the finer points of MMA with Stacy’s brother, John. Dax would bet his right nut—
yes, it’s my favorite
—John didn’t give two shits about MMA, but he damn sure did about Augusta, or Gus as everyone called her. John was so far down that rabbit hole, he’d probably sit there and discuss vagina maintenance tendencies in the elderly community of The Villages if that’s what she wanted to talk about.
Good thing I’m not that deep.

Before the “p” sound faded in his gray matter, a realization he wasn’t ready to accept yet reared it’s ugly head and taunted him…again.
Aw, Hulk’s hairy green taint, John is just following the Goddamn trail I blazed.

Dax was beginning to realize he was similar to a hunk of oak he made tables from or a chunk of metal he forged into something lethal—a metaphorical blank dermal canvas that could be inked into a living work of art. It was all just raw material until a craftsman carved, forged, or inked it into something more. In the past few months, Stacy had made her marks on him. He was no longer completely raw. Something different was taking shape, a chrysalis effect.

Stacy is already my master craftsman and I haven’t even kissed her yet.

Tori and Erika, the two ladies he considered sisters in every sense of the word, were just inside the kitchen chatting it up.
You know, love ‘em to death, but they make your life hell with their meddling; sisters.
They droned on about the same thing they'd been plotting for over a year now, throwing Dax at Gus, or Gus at Dax—different path, but same destination.

Those two adorably well-meaning, but clueless, women were the reason four of the ten adults here at the Reid’s home on this fine summer day in Florida were more miserable than the investors in the Member’s Only corporation in 1990. It wasn’t like he was the only one with ears. Gus suffered their misguided attentions, too. It was pretty much public knowledge at this point; they were playing matchmaker for Gus and Dax.

Even though they weren’t the least bit interested in each other that way, neither had the guts to take a piss in Erika and Tori’s Cheerios. Dax wasn’t one to sprinkle feel good between all the truths, but he was loathe to upset the fragile balance this family-by-choice had finally achieved after a year that would make even his ancestors, the historic Vikings, cringe.

In just twelve short months, this clan had seen tragedy, assault, death, birth, and, lucky for them, much love too. His attention was diverted back to Stacy as she gracefully swept past where he sat and disappeared down the hall. As he was being hypnotized by the perfect sway of hips, Francis’ heated words almost gave him whiplash as he spun his head around like Linda-freaking-Blair.

What?
Dax stuck a finger in his ear and shook it in an attempt to clean it out to ensure he was hearing things correctly and he stared, dumbfounded, in the direction of Francis’ voice.

Francis was the matriarch, the thread that held the scraps of the quilt of this family together. She was short, sassy, and southern, but she would turn into a freaking beast to protect every single one of them against anyone, even each other. She was intuitive, like him. They both seemed to observe things on a deeper level than most, and neither shied away from saying so as a rule.
The evidence of that trait in her is blowing me away right now.

She was standing up to his
sisters
. He knew she was serious too, because she was using phrases like “bless your heart,” “just because you slap butter on it, don’t make it a biscuit,” and “for the love of grits.”
She knows, she fucking knows. Well, bless her heart, and not in the sarcastic southern way either
, Dax thought.

Francis could see he and Gus were a no-go, but more than that, she could see what Tori and Erika’s TattooArtistMatch.com efforts were doing to the people they called family. She was spelling it out for them and telling them to back the truck up, but in a sweet as iced tea way, of course.

Aw, fuck me stupid.
Dax’s brain turned to oatmeal, his lungs, frozen. His heart hammered in his chest like a muscle car piston and his dick tried to break out of Levi Prison and hump Stacy’s leg like one of Tori’s Great Danes.

Stacy was emerging from the hall in a white, one piece swimsuit and some see-through sheer cover-up that covered absofuckinglutely nothing, and those fuck-me pumps. As she turned to open the screen slider, he caught a glimpse of that delectable crease at the bottom of her ass cheek that led into a soft thigh that would feel like Heaven on his shoulder.
Fuck yes, that is the exact location I will grip her sweet body while I wax my beard.

Dax rose from his seat and trailed Stacy out onto the pool deck where the rest of his family was hanging out.
This is going to happen, damn it. Stacy will be mine.
Francis had paved the way and basically stamped her approval on it with her words to his
sisters.
She’s the sheriff around these here parts, and we are all just lawfuckingabiding citizens.

Even though he wasn’t biologically related to the Reids, Francis was standing up to the daughter she gave birth to, Tori, and Erika, her daughter-by-marriage to her son, Walker. She was standing up for Dax, her son by choice, and by extension, she was fighting for Gus, Stacy, and John. She loved all her “kids” with equal ferocity.

One thing Francis had said in her efforts to explain to Erika and Tori what their good intentions were costing really resonated with Dax and spurred him into action sooner, rather than later.
“Erika, honey, life is made up of opportunities disguised as run of the mill moments. If we fail to see them as the opportunities they are, then they cease to be so. Once they pass, they were simply ordinary moments because we failed to seize them and make them otherwise. Is that what you want for two people that you love like crazy? Actually, four, because the effect isn’t confined to Dax and Gus.”

That was all he needed to hear, he would not let Stacy slip into
The History of Daxton Magnus Askrsson
as an ordinary moment.

T
here are so
many people to thank. One person may write a book, but even one that self-publishes doesn’t do it alone.

There is Lea at Fierce and Fabulous Book Diva, who goes out of her way to get my hard work recognized. She is way above fierce, and miles beyond fabulous.

My editor, Jennifer, is another beautiful lady who goes above and beyond being “just an editor.”

I don’t want to forget the beta readers, they do me an incredible service, and contributed to this book tremendously.

I couldn’t do this without my family’s willingness to eat fast food, my dogs forgoing extra pets, and my husband making wine runs. They really do contribute a lot to my books without even knowing how much.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve run out the door to pick up my daughter at school with potato chip crumbs and chocolate smears on my face, and she never complains…in front of me, anyway.

My husband has endured countless hours of teasing at my expense, for obvious and not so obvious reasons. His co-workers questioned my very existence until I finally put my writing down and attended an office party, over two years into his employment. Half of them still have their money on me being a hire. I think my son has it worst of all, his education schedule puts him at home with me more than everyone else. He has witnessed more meltdowns, freak outs, and “expressive” language outbursts than anyone his age should ever have to. Not to mention when I’m mumbling about story lines he’d rather not know exist. So please, buy my book, I have to pay for his therapy somehow.

Last but not least, the haters (that’s harsh, let’s call them the dislikers). You guys propel me higher than you can imagine. I take every word to heart, even when they sting like a bitch. I process them all, transmuting my tears of shame into fuel of awesome.

I appreciate every single person who has taken time to review my books, comment on my page, follow me on social media, and spend their hard earned money on my work. I know it sounds cheesy, but just because it does, doesn’t mean it’s not true. I try to write a better book, not just for myself, but for all of you, too.

Thanks for your support.

Verlene

V
erlene was born
and raised in the south. Thanks to the military, she's traveled the US, but now calls Sin City home. Self proclaimed zombie apocalypse enthusiast, word porn peddler, human canvas, Manowarrior, serial grammar killer, rabid Bama fan, accidental dust bunny population specialist, and abuser of the word f*ck. She's thrown live grenades, survived the tear gas chamber and forced road marches, but still thinks writing is more brutal.

"Born to lose. Live to win."

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