His Obsession Page 5

  I listened to his response.

  “I’m getting a flight home today. I’ll call when I land.”

  And with my words I severed the last connection I had with the girl of my obsession and the twisted fate I’d been trying to fight.

  FIVE YEARS LATER

  I pull on the handle of the door. I’m not expecting anyone. I offer a dry laugh when I contemplate my thought. Do I ever expect anyone?

  The door opens a crack and I put my eye to the slither of light. The beer bottle in my hand thuds against the wood. “What do you want?” I stare at the familiar face that hasn’t changed despite the passing of five years. The woman was surely all plastic by now.

  “We need to talk.” Erica Jennings tugged on the edge of her pale jacket and stared through the gap in the door.

  “We have nothing to talk about.”

  I went to slam the door but she placed the toe of her suede cream flat in the doorjamb. “Blake, listen, I need your help. It’s Sophia.”

  My stomach clenched at the sound of her name. I couldn’t deny the pull that single word had on me, even after all this time. “What?”

  “Can I come in, or shall we discuss private business on your front step?”

  “There is no one else around,” I forced my reply. “This place is truly isolated.”

  “Got yourself a nice little island of regret here, do you?” Her lip curved into a sneer but then she remembered that she wanted something from me and switched on the smile I detested and could still remember as clear as day. It was no less annoying now.

  “Nice seeing you, Erica,” I said and went to close the door again.

  “You must know she’s in rehab.” She blurted.

  Of course, I did. I may live down a dirt track in the middle of the Welsh hills, but the entire universe knew what Sophia Jennings was doing daily. The tabloids made it everyone’s business. Down to what swimsuit she was wearing, where she’d bought a sandwich, where her yoga class was, anything and everything was shared with the world.

  So yes, I knew the blonde girl with pigtails was in rehab.

  “So?”

  “Blake,” Erica’s voice was beseeching—a tone of desperation weaving through my name as it stumbled from her lips. “We are going to lose her. She won’t survive much longer if this carries on. You don’t want that do you?”

  “What do you want from me? I haven’t seen her in five years, I doubt she even remembers who I am.” I told myself this repeatedly. She’d never reached out to me, never tried to find me after I left. I was just her bodyguard after all.

  “You are the only one she ever listened to.”

  “And, that’s gone, I’ve moved on. I’m not a sober companion.” I couldn’t help even if I wanted to. “Anyway, I’ve got a new gig starting in three weeks.”

  “Come after.”

  “Erica, no. I’m not suitable.”

  Erica’s eyes filled with tears, a mother torn, and so she deserved to be. “Blake, there’s these.”

  She dipped her hand into the bag clutched to her chest.

  I straightened and my heart raced in my throat as Erica thrust a wad of rubber banded papers at me. “What is this?” I cast a confused glance over the papers and baulked at what I saw smeared on the page. “Does she know?”

  The tears dripped down Erica’s perfectly made up face, ruining her foundation and revealing the real woman underneath and she shook her head. “It would finish her if she knew.”

  I fisted the papers, scrunching them tight in my hand. I knew it didn’t matter what my determined head said from this point on. I knew I’d be making my way back to her side, back to my obsession. This time, though, I’d protect her from everything, even from myself.

  The End.

  ––––––––

  CONTINUE THE STORY in His Possession 28th November

  Pre-order Sale Price Here: books2read.com/annabloomhispossession

  HIS POSSESSION

  SNEAK PEEK

  ––––––––

  PROLOGUE

  Three Months Before

  Sophia

  ––––––––

  "SOPHIA. COME HERE, gorgeous."

  I blinked at the voice calling my name. Everyone called my name; it was a given.

  That wasn’t me being up my own A-hole, or a look at her she’s so full of herself self-absorbed diva. It was the truth of the matter. Everywhere I went ‘Sophia’ was whispered, in shrill loud voices I wasn’t supposed to hear. When I left the gym, when I was shoving sushi in my face, when I was falling out of a club and flashing my knickers. Sophia, Sophia, Sophia.

  I squinted into the crowd, recognising the voice calling my name and waved.; a moronic grin smeared across my face. This party, which was as enjoyable as a wake, was about to get better—a hell of a lot better.

  "Hey, Johnny." Tripping on my heels I made my way towards Johnny Fairweather. Johnny was appealingly hot. The entire world, irrelevant of sexual orientation hankered to screw him. With his chiselled jaw, piercing blue eyes and blonde hair that screamed just-got-out-of-bed-from-a-fuck-session, he made for scorching hot, front cover fodder. Together we were sublime perfection, with our matching skin and eye tones and sizzling on-screen chemistry. We’d used it to our advantage starring in a blockbuster franchise of films together and over the last five years they had made us very, very rich.

  He was my boyfriend. I snorted at the thought. He was nowhere near that close to a defined role, but that was what all the teenyboppers believed after we’d been giving them red carpet gold for the last five years.

  First it was his hand lingering on the small of my back. That set Twitter on fire. Then the whispered conversations in view of the camera, his lips millimetres from the skin of my throat. People wanted to know what we were whispering. It made it to the late-night showbiz news. Finally, we hit the hand holding and glanced kisses.

  Hand holding is front page news and brings about an equal measure of loving and hating worldwide. Go figure.

  He caught my arms as I stumbled into his space, and I snickered against his chest. That chiselled jaw, that looked better from the left angle (I don’t know why, it just did) tilted down in my direction.

  The coke buzzed in my veins. Every movement heightened and electric. Even straightening from my tumble was like being yanked from the sea.

  "Are you high again, Fee?" he asked, reproachfully. Tipping my chin, Johnny called me the nickname he'd given me through filming five years before. His eyes scanned my face as he scrutinised my features. I didn’t know why he was being so grouchy, he loved it when I was high. High made me free, brave, usable.

  Shaking my head, I attempted my most staid expression. "Nope. There is no high to be had here." I was beyond high. Parties were only survivable if I’d sky rocketed into the stratosphere of oblivion.

  Johnny groaned, and I thought he was going to bring me down—honestly, if I wanted a downer I’d just locate my mother, she was about somewhere, schmoozing and air kissing—but from under the depths of Johnny’s admonishing note was a trace of anticipation. "Come on." He wrapped tight arms around my waist. "Let's get you out of here before you are spotted and papped."

  I smacked my hand against his rock hard chest and rocked on my heels. "No, no, I'm just starting to have fun. This party is so dull, Johnny. Why do they keep making me come to them?" I flung my arms around his neck, burying my face into his warm flesh. He smelled of Armani. I think he had it coming out of his ears—it was what happened when you were the face of the brand. He told me once he poured a bath full of the stuff just to see how many bottles he could get through.

  What was that number again? Two hundred and fifty? No that’s not enough, surely? How many bottles of Armani would it take to fill a bath...?

  "Fee, wake up." He lifted me away from his chest, lowering his head to inspect me better. His lips grazed a sensitive spot under my ear and with a weak hand I clipped him away. "We can have fun at mine," his hand wrapped around
my wrist and jerked hard, "whatever, you need to be away from the crowds." He didn’t wait for my answer; hooking determined fingers around my elbow he guided me towards the back exit of the club. The lights were low, and I stumbled numerous times, with Johnny catching me when I nearly crashed onto the sticky floor.

  "Blake, wait. What sort of fun do you have at yours?" I yanked on his hand, trying to stop his path. Blake. Blake. Blake. I frowned and my brain scrambled to engage and catch up with what was happening.

  Johnny frowned. "I’m not Blake, sugar pops. Remember, he left you because he was psychotic. Now, are you coming to mine or not? I’ve got all sorts of fun."

  Rooting my feet firmly anchored into the ground, I refused to move. He wasn’t Blake. I knew that. I didn’t even know why I said his stupid name, anyway. It’s because he’s the only person you ever listened to, said the jacked-up voice in my head.

  My head spun, and all I wanted was to lie down. Was that too much to ask? I was just so damn tired.

  "Johnny, Johnny Fairweather, you are not the boss of me." I wagged my finger, watching it track back and forth slowly in my vision. My finger wanted to lie down too, it was telling me.

  Johnny’s smile transformed into a wolfish smirk. "I could be. I could spank that pert arse of yours until it's black and blue."

  This was our game; we pushed, and we pushed. Two children caught in childish endeavours. "You aren’t brave enough." I folded my arms across my chest, the game initiated.

  His lips lifted another inch, and I placed my hands on my hips, watching with fascination as his eyes roved over my body, darkening with a feral desire.

  He leant closer, his body crushing into my space, his hot breath rushing against my cheek as he nuzzled my jaw, his stubble grazing my skin. "Let's see just what you will do for a high."

  I burned with his words. The need for my next buzz igniting a deep ache within me. I knew I'd do anything for my next high because my next high was all I had. My need for sleep evaporated in a cloud of forgetful mist. High was better than sleep.

  I let him lead me to a dark man in a suit who wore an ear-piece cord running from his ear into the neck of his suit jacket. A distant memory threatened to rear its ugly head. A man in a dark suit who once used to stand and wait for me. I blocked it as quick as it came refusing to allow the hazy recollection to take hold.

  I could always forget.

  No. I could always make myself forget.

  Forget the fact I couldn’t be saved.

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  Did you love His Obsession? Then you should read His Possession by Anna Bloom!

  She was Hollywood’s golden child.

  But ever since Sophia Jennings' best friend left her without so much as an explanation, life has spiralled out of control. With her career in tatters and having barely survived ninety days of sobriety, the last thing Sophia wants is to have old wounds ripped open.

  He was her protector.

  But ever since he walked away, Blake Henderson has lived an empty existence. It only takes one glance at Sophia for five years distance to melt away. Only she’s not the same girl anymore and he quickly realises his return to Hollywood was his biggest mistake yet.

  With a new threat looming, and Sophie lost in an existence she never wanted to live, can Blake save the vivacious young woman who once had the world at her feet? Or will the two of them lead each other on a dark path of self-destruction as they discover just how far obsession goes and what the true cost of possession is?

  Also by Anna Bloom

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  His Obsession

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  Lost. A Young Adult Second Chance Novella