Frayed Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE CONNECTIONS SERIES

  Mended

  “Kim Karr is one of my few autobuys! Romantic, sexy, and downright gripping! I read it in one sitting because I just couldn’t put it down!”

  —New York Times bestselling author Vi Keeland

  Torn

  “I was riveted from the first line and couldn’t put it down until the last word was read.”

  —New York Times bestselling author A. L. Jackson

  “After an edge-of-your-seat cliff-hanger, Kim Karr returns to beloved characters Dahlia and River. . . . Their passion is intense.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “The story is fabulous, the characters are rich and full of emotion, and the romance, passion, and sexy are wonderfully balanced with the angst and heartbreak.”

  —Bookish Temptations

  Connected

  “I was pulled in from the first word and felt every emotion . . . an incredibly emotional, romantic, sexy, and addictive read.”

  —Samantha Young, New York Times bestselling author of Fall from India Place

  “Emotional, unpredictable, and downright hot.”

  —K. A. Tucker, author of Ten Tiny Breaths

  “This book had all my favorite things. This was one of those holy-smokes kind of books!”

  —Shelly Crane, New York Times bestselling author of Significance

  “It’s been two weeks since I finished Connected and Dahlia and River are still in my head.”

  —Bookaholics Blog (5 stars)

  “I can’t say enough about this book! I LOVED IT! You will be sighing, swooning, and smiling often but you will also be crying, yelling, and you will have your jaw drop to the floor once or twice.”

  —The Book Enthusiast

  “I can’t wait for more of [Karr’s] books!”

  —Aestas Book Blog

  “Grabbed my attention and held on to it from beginning to end. . . . The romance, the heat, the angst, the storytelling, and the characters are all captivating and very well balanced.”

  —Bookish Temptations

  “A sexy, emotional and wonderfully romantic debut. . . . Kim Karr has a fantastic ‘voice,’ which will only continue to grow and refine.”

  —Swept Away by Romance

  ALSO BY KIM KARR

  The Connections Series

  Connected

  Torn

  Dazed (Penguin digital novella)

  Mended

  Blurred (Penguin digital novella)

  New American Library

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014

  USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

  penguin.com

  A Penguin Random House Company

  First published by New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  Copyright © Kim Karr, 2014

  Excerpt from Connected copyright © Kim Karr, 2013

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  Karr, Kim.

  Frayed/Kim Karr.

  p. cm.—The connections series)

  ISBN 978-0-698-16306-5

  1. Man-woman relationships—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3611.A78464.F79 2014

  813'.6—dc23 2014016750

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  To my three boys . . .

  may you each grow up to be a strong and caring man

  And hopefully some lucky woman’s prince charming as well. <3

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My thanks to the artists and musicians who inspired me through every chapter. Music is a world within itself. It is a language we all understand. And although I hope the words in this book do not fail you, I also hope the music helps to enhance them. Music speaks to me and tells me a story, and when I listen to songs, I listen to that story. . . . I hope I have succeeded in telling you a story that was brought to life through both words and music.

  This section is by far the most difficult to write because it is so very important to acknowledge all of those who have never wavered in their support of not only myself but of the Connections Series as well.

  I would like to thank my beta readers, Mary Tarter, Jody O. Fraleigh, and Laura Hansen, for your endless help and suggestions.

  To Amy Tannenbaum of the Jane Rotrosen Agency, who believed in me enough to sign me and then dedicated the time to help me throughout the writing of this series. You are such an amazing person, and I couldn’t be more grateful to have you as my literary agent.

  To Penguin. When I began this journey with Connected, I never imagined I would land a publishing deal. So thank you, Kerry Donovan and the team at New American Library for so eagerly and enthusiastically taking me on and helping get the Connections Series published.

  To all of the bloggers who have become my friends—you’re all so amazing, and I cannot possibly put into words the amount of gratitude I have for each and every one of you!

  And finally, my love and gratitude to my family—to my husband of twenty years, who became Mr. Mom while continuing to go to work every day; to my children, who not only took on roles that I for many years had always done—laundry, grocery shopping, cleaning—but always asked how the book was coming and actually beamed to their friends when telling them their mom wrote a book.

  Without the help of those mentioned above, plus all of the support from my readers, who have contacted me daily since Connected’s release, the writing of Frayed wouldn’t have been possible—a giant thank-you to all of you.

  “Nobody can go back and start a new beginning,

  but anyone can start today and make a new ending.”

  —Maria Robinson

  Frayed Playlist

  Praise

  Also by KIM KARR

  Title page

  Copyright page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  CHAPTER 1

  Come a Little Closer

  CHAPTER 2

  Past Lives

  CHAPTER 3

  You and Me

  CHAPTER 4

  Underneath It All

  CHAPTER 5

  Show Me What I’m Looking For

  CHAPTER 6

  Dig In

  CHAPTER 7

  Maybe Tomorrow

  CHAPTER 8

  Run Run Run

  CHAPTER 9

  Towers

  CHAPTER 10

  I’m Ready

  CHAPTER 11

  Show Me

  CHAPTER 12

  Still Into You

  CHAPTER 13

  Kinks Shirt

  CHAPTER 14

  I Choose You

  CHAPTER 15

  Show Me

  CHAPTER 16

  What Now

  CHAPTER 17

  Navigate Me

  CHAPTER 18

  Dirty Laundry

  CHAPTER 19

  Pain

  CHAPTER 20

&n
bsp; Little White Lies

  CHAPTER 21

  Away from the Sun

  CHAPTER 22

  Burn

  CHAPTER 23

  Stuck in the Middle

  CHAPTER 24

  Say Something

  CHAPTER 25

  Losing Sleep

  CHAPTER 26

  Sundown

  CHAPTER 27

  Counting Stars

  CHAPTER 28

  Talk Dirty

  CHAPTER 29

  Shape of Love

  CHAPTER 30

  Roar

  CHAPTER 31

  Start of Something

  CHAPTER 32

  Burn

  CHAPTER 33

  Best Day of My Life

  CHAPTER 34

  Dark Horse

  CHAPTER 35

  Say Something

  CHAPTER 36

  Our Song

  CHAPTER 37

  Come to Me

  CHAPTER 38

  Happy

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  Come a Little Closer

  Ben

  The sign behind the bar reads:

  WANTED . . .

  THAT CRYSTAL ASHTRAY YOU FILCHED.

  THE MONOGRAMMED TOWELS YOU TOTED OFF IN YOUR SUITCASE.

  THOSE SCOTTISH-MADE LINEN NAPKINS YOU POCKETED.

  IF YOU TOOK ANY OF THESE ITEMS IN THE LAST SEVENTY-FIVE YEARS . . .

  WE WOULD LIKE THEM BACK.

  PLEASE!

  Resting my elbows on the slick surface of the bar, I gesture to the sign.

  The bartender shrugs. “Don’t ask me, I only serve the drinks.”

  A cute cocktail waitress slinks up beside me and slides her drink order across the bar. While she waits she crooks a finger and bends toward me at such at angle that her ample cleavage spills out. My eyes naturally fall to it, but I quickly force them away when the bartender’s voice booms over to us loudly.

  “Lucy, gin or vodka in the martini?” he asks her sternly.

  “Vodka.” But she doesn’t let her gaze wander and crooks her finger at me yet again.

  “Rumor has it that management is looking to open a museum,” she whispers in my ear.

  I straighten and lift an eyebrow. “Interesting way to go about filling it.”

  “They’re even willing to give recognition to anyone who returns the items.”

  I raise my glass. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “I can show you what they’ve collected so far if you’re interested. I have time to take a break before dinner is served.”

  Her body language and the seductive tone of her voice tell me she’s offering more than a quick glance in a closet. I admit to contemplating the offer. The devil on my shoulder reminds me what a bittersweet day today is and that getting lost for a while doesn’t sound so bad. But another, stronger, voice declares that the days of needing to get lost in women are long behind me.

  My foot taps the stool rung at an increasing speed. “Maybe another time,” I tell her as nicely as I can manage, with a mental pat on the back.

  A year ago I would have taken her up on her offer, unzipped my pants, lifted her skirt, and fucked her from behind without even thinking twice about it. She shrugs and bats her eyelashes at me as she puts her drink order on a tray. When she leaves she turns and winks, tossing over her shoulder, “I’ll be back. Maybe you’ll change your mind.”

  What is she, the fucking Terminator? I loosen my bow tie, not able to stand another minute of restraint. And once I can breathe, I blink away any second thoughts. At the sound of a soft sigh coming from the bartender, I lift my eyes toward him. He looks forlorn and so I’m pretty sure he’s crushing on the cocktail waitress.

  “She’s never asked me to see the items in storage,” he mumbles.

  “Take the lead, man, and ask her.”

  He seems to contemplate the idea.

  Leaving him to ponder my suggestion, I turn around and lean against the brass rail to survey the room. Legend has it that the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences was founded here, that World War II military men used it as their recreation facility, and that John F. Kennedy’s nomination for president happened in this very space. The historic Biltmore Hotel has served great people who have done amazing things. And I can’t believe I’m here.

  Turning back around, I sip the rest of my sparkling water and push the glass toward the bartender. “Thanks, man.”

  “Anytime, and, sir . . .”

  I look over toward him.

  “Congratulations,” he says.

  “Thank you. And hey, think about what I said—take the lead.”

  He laughs before resuming his work. When he steps aside I catch sight of myself in the mirror behind the bar. For a minute I can’t help thinking about how damn lucky I am to have gotten a second chance at life. I was a dead man, a man who then lost sight of what mattered and then fell over the edge. But somehow after everything I went through, I was tugged back up by life and able to land on my feet.

  A beep from my phone alerts me I have a text. I pull it out and smile at the screen—Dahlia London. I know her name is Dahlia Wilde now, but to me she’ll always be Dahlia London—the beautiful blond-haired girl with the tiniest of noses, heart-shaped lips, and a love of the beach that could only be matched by mine. She moved in next door when we were five and we spent our whole lives together. For the longest time I thought she was the one made for me. I even asked her to marry me. But then after things in my job went wrong, I entered the witness protection program . . . leaving her to think I was dead. When I came back years later, she was in love with someone else.

  Time made me realize our love was one of comfort and familiarity, not true undying love. I don’t think I’ve experienced the latter, but I see it in her eyes. Sure, I struggled for a while before coming to terms with the fact that she has moved on, but we’re in a good place now.

  I read her text.

  I just wanted to say congratulations and I was thinking of you today.

  With a smile, I type out my reply,

  Thank you. That means a lot to me.

  Switching my phone to vibrate, I slide it back in my pocket. She’ll always be important to me and I hope she’ll always be in my life, as a friend.

  A hand on my shoulder pulls me from my thoughts. “You ready for this?”

  I glance over. “Couldn’t be readier.”

  Then Jason makes his way to the front of the room and his husky voice is amplified to fill the space. “I’d like to have everyone’s attention if I could please.”

  The room becomes eerily silent and my nerves start to buzz.

  He clears his throat. “I’m honored to be here today to present this award. For those of you who don’t know who I am, I’m Jason Holt, commander of an FBI special task force, and I am honored to be here tonight to present to you a man I know well—Ben Covington, California’s Journalist of the Year.”

  The words of his introduction echo off the walls in the legendary Crystal Ballroom at the historic downtown Los Angeles hotel and it seems a little surreal. There’s a round of applause as I cross toward the stairs with years of reflection sweeping through my mind. When I finally reach the stage, I take the steps two at a time and stride across it heading toward my ex-brother-in-law. His eyes lock on mine and then he extends his arm, handing me the glass typewriter award, and suddenly everything feels so . . . real. With a handshake and a nod, he clears the stage and I’m left standing at the podium alone. It’s shorter than I had expected, and as I set the award on its shelf, I scan the room.

  My eyes come to rest on the table before me. The circle of people sitting there are the ones who brought me home—not in the physical sense, but emotionally speaking. Serena, my sister, is seated front and center. Trent, my nephew, is at her side. Caleb Holt, my best friend for as long as I can remember, sits beside him. Then Kale Alexander, the mate I met in Australia who helped remind me of my love for writing. Beck Cavanaugh
, who not only pulled me up from the darkness, but also shook me until I could see through it, is seated beside him. And finally closing the circle, Jason takes a seat beside his ex-wife, the same beautiful woman who is also my sister.

  I clear my throat and begin. “In the movie Citizen Kane a reporter said, ‘I don’t think there’s one word that can describe a man’s life.’”

  Lifting my eyes to the nods of people in the audience agreeing with me, I adjust the microphone and my voice grows stronger. “I’m sorry to say I don’t entirely agree with that statement.”

  Nameless faces in the crowd furrow their brows, purse their lips, and stare at me. “Rosebud was the last word Charles Foster Kane muttered just before he died. In the movie a journalist tries to decipher what the millionaire newspaper tycoon meant. But in the end he gives up on his investigation and summarizes it by saying, ‘Mr. Kane was a man who got everything he wanted and then lost it. Maybe Rosebud was something he couldn’t get or something he lost. Anyway, it wouldn’t have explained anything . . . I don’t think any one word can explain a man’s life. No, I guess Rosebud is just a piece in a jigsaw puzzle . . . a missing piece.’”

  Long, rectangular white linen-draped tables outline the elegant ballroom with larger round ones filling its center. Journalists from all around the state occupy the many seats. Taking deep calming breaths, I continue. “And as we all know, in the end of the movie it is revealed to the audience that Rosebud was the name of the sled from Kane’s childhood—it was a reference to the only time in his life that he was really happy. At the end of the movie we’re left with the image of the sled being burned in the furnace because people thought it was just a piece of junk lying around.”

  Food is being ushered out to the tables around the perimeter of the room and I know my time is running short. With sweaty palms, I grip the wooden sides of the stand and try to clarify what I mean. “I’ve spent the past year thinking, what is my Rosebud? And although I agree one word cannot describe your whole life, I do think one word can describe your life in the here and now. I think that word will change throughout your life, but the important thing is not to dismiss what it represents. Don’t let life pass you by.”

  Against the white backdrop of the walls and the golden reflection from the chandeliers above, a vibrant flash of red movement toward the back of the room demands my attention. But then again I always notice women with red hair. I squint, trying to see past the shadows of the bright lights. Suddenly my world stops and I hope I don’t gasp out loud in the wake of all the air leaving my lungs. Is it really her?