I Need You To Love Me Read online

  Copyright © 2021 by Genicious

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either 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 coincidental.

  ISBN: 9780645010848

  GENICIOUS

  To my amazing readers:

  May the stars align.

  Author’s Note

  I’d like to start this off by saying that I do not condone the actions that my characters took or will take in this series. After all, this is a work of fiction and it’s intended for mature audiences, who, I sincerely hope, can draw a bold line between fiction and reality. I’m bewildered that I must even write this. After all, I think people forget that authors are not their characters, and that puts an immense weight on us to create these perfect characters that no one wants to see. Characters are meant to be jaded, they meant to take questionable actions, they are meant to fuck up. Badly. And continue to fuck up.

  Drunk driving is a serious crime in our society. My condolences go out to those who lost someone because of this. I believe that actions have consequences, and by the end of the series I’ll try to represent this as best as I can, while also keeping in mind that this is fiction.

  I’m not, under any circumstances, romanticizing drunk driving. What I am trying to do is bring awareness to this issue and show how a life can change in one single moment, and how that moment can haunt a person for the remainder of their life. I’m trying to show the grave reality of the crime in a very unique situation. I know some people won’t understand this or understand how Calla can love someone who recklessly took her mother’s life and caused her suffering, and that’s okay. We all have limits, but love doesn’t. Every day people do foolish things for love, things that they swore they would never do. I hope that even if you can’t relate to Calla, you can relate to the fact that love is truly a mental illness.

  Table Of Contents

  1. Monster

  2. We Meet Again

  3. Avoiding Fate

  4. Old Friends

  5. Facing the Past

  6. The Planetarium

  7. Deal with the Devil

  8. Mia

  9. Still Playing with Fire

  10. Forgiveness

  11. The Wedding

  12. Seeking the Truth

  13. Secrets

  14. Needing Her

  15. Girls’ Day

  16. Daddy Issues

  17. Paris

  18. The Release

  19. Craving Chaos

  20. She Owns Me

  21. Timing is Everything

  22. The Last Night

  23. Home

  24. What Did You Expect?

  25. Clouded Reality

  26. Heartache

  27. Filling the Void

  28. Repercussions

  29. Nostalgia

  30. Burning Out

  31. Supernova

  32. Tying Loose Ends

  33. End of the Tunnel

  34. When the Stars Align

  35. You Can’t Outrun the Law

  About the Author

  1

  Monster

  Ace

  Monsters exist in the form of souls. They rest in the deepest fragments, and it isn’t until they awake that they become alive. I often question when I stopped looking for monsters under my bed. When did I stop being alarmed about walking down an alleyway at night in the most dangerous city?

  It’s relatively straightforward, though. The day I stopped being fearful of monsters is the day I became one.

  It’s confronting to catch your reflection daily and meet everything you were afraid of becoming glaring back at you. The shadows in my eyes flame with wickedness, fight for dynamism. I thrust it all to the back, unwilling to come to terms with the vile creature lurking within me.

  The receptionist stands behind the grand desk in front of me. Her scarlet hair tumbles around her face like an ardent blaze. She lifts her head, her eyes widen in recognition, and she slides her black-rimmed glasses down her nose to gain a better look. Speckled-amber eyes stare at me in astonishment. “You’re Ace Blackwell.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I reply with a lofty grin. It’s my go-to response when I’m recognized in public.

  “Do-do you have an appointment?” she stumbles over her words, and color surges to her face. She busies herself by glancing at the computer screen in front of her, searching for my name in the schedule.

  Women react one of two ways when they see me—intimidated or starstruck. Occasionally, a bit of both.

  “No.”

  She glances up from her computer. “Ah, I see. I’m afraid he’s not to be interrupted,” she apologizes like she doesn’t want to displease me. Looking down, she adds, “He also doesn’t take on new clients—”

  “That’s too bad.” I turn toward the office before she has time to finish her sentence.

  I shove my hands deeper into my pockets as I stride like a man on a mission through the halls of the most influential law firm in the state. I glimpse in the rooms that have their doors wide open but don’t find who I’m looking for.

  The receptionist’s heels click behind me on the porcelain floors in an attempt to catch up. My strides are too extended for her short legs, four steps of hers for one of mine. I scan the frosted glass doors for the name I’m after and notice it once I reach the very end of the hallway. The largest office on the floor.

  I step in without bothering to knock, fortunate it isn’t locked. It’s impressively large with the bare minimum—a desk with chairs, industrial filing cabinets, and an antique wooden bookshelf that I assume is for decorative purposes only. Unhurriedly, I pull out the chair across from him, scraping the legs against the floor, and occupy it. His office is everything I’ve supposed it would be. The exemplification of privilege and ego. The apple mustn’t have fallen too far from the tree.

  A phone is pressed to the man’s ear, and a lazy, crooked smile is embedded on his face. It fades into an eerily familiar line when he realizes someone has marched into his office without his permission.

  I did my research vigilantly. Twenty-eight. Not married. Doesn’t have children. His mother died when he was ten. A reputable lawyer from the outside, but we all have demons. Some more than others.

  “I’ll talk to you later, sweetheart.” He ends the call and leans forward in his seat, acting surprisingly mild. Like I’m an invited client instead of an unsolicited intruder.

  Recognition flickers in him. He knows who I am, or at least a part of my identity. Splendid. We don’t need to waste time on introductions. Frankly, I’m not a fan of them.

  The receptionist appears behind me, out of breath. “My apologies. I did inform Mr. Blackwell you requested not to be disturbed and aren’t taking on new clients. But he was…” she searches for the appropriate word, “adamant.”

  I turn to face her, and her eyes narrow into slits as she glares at me, undoubtedly afraid my insolence will land her in the bad books with her boss. I shoot her a dazzling smile. The lines between her brows fade, but she purses her lips.

  The man in front of me waves his arm. “That’s fine, Lucy.”

  She scampers out, the apologetic expression lingering.

  I pluck a pen from the desk and twirl it in between my fingers while I continue to examine the office. There’s inadequate décor for me to be this entertained, but I manage to give my attention to every corner, ignoring the glower from the man in front of me.

  When I don’t bother speaking, he caves. “To what do I owe your company?” His voice appears solid and sonorous.

  I’ve never spoken to the man. I’ve never even heard of him until a few days ago. But my distaste for him flares in my veins—the resentment buried just mere inches below my skin.

  I preserve a grin on my face. The condescending one that frequently pisses people off. “I need a lawyer. I heard you’re the best.”

  2

  We Meet Again

  Calla

  I used to think if I ignored my pain, it would eventually fade. But I’ve come to discover pain is alive. It pleads for compassion. It desires to be heard—whether it be in the form of your wails or your thoughts. It’s not something you can put in a bottle, screw the lid on, and throw away in hopes it won’t find a way back.

  It took me four years to realize that. And yet there are still times when I choose to turn my back on it, to push it to the side when I can’t endure it anymore. A short-term solution to an inexorable feeling.

  There’s a rough knock on my door that drags me out of my thoughts. I rush toward it, hoping it’s not someone canvassing for a politician or a church organization looking for volunteers or donations.

  Living in the cheapest apartment in New York City has some perks, but security measures aren’t one of them. Anyone can stroll inside the building without a keycard, and there are often people loitering at the entry. I’ve become accustomed to not answering my door after the sun sets.

  It may seem like I’m complaining, but I’m not. I’m grateful I’m able to afford my own place on my low wage as a junior journalist.

  Opening the
door, I encounter a guy who appears to be in his mid-teens. I notice the package in his hands before glancing back at his tanned, freckled face.

  “Are you Calla?” His voice is smooth, still in between the stages of breaking.

  I give a slight nod. “I am.”

  “Here.” He thrusts the box at me and turns on his heel to leave, stuffing his hands deep into the pocket of his washed-out jeans.

  “What’s this?” I ask, puzzled.

  He glances back and shrugs. “From Mr. Stryker.”

  I examine the box in my hands. It’s matte black with a white velvet ribbon. I quickly shout, “Thank you,” before he disappears down the stairs.

  I met Niklaus Stryker two months ago. He’s a handsome lawyer who holds history with my boss, Jennifer. We instantaneously connected at a work event.

  Nik is famous for never losing a case. They don’t just call him “Stryker” because it’s his last name. He strikes his opponent down in court, like a bolt of lightning, no one stands a chance against him. He’s a partner in New York’s most prestigious firm—Stryker & Portman.

  Oreo meows near my feet, and I close my apartment door, ensuring to lock it behind me. My therapist recommended I get a cat. Apparently, they help with self-healing, stress, and mental health. “Their purrs help heal us,” she said. At times, I wonder which one of us actually needs the therapy.

  Oreo leaps on the bench and nudges me with his head. I comply with his requests and rub him under the chin before staring blankly at the box, afraid to open it. Oreo prods me again, and I sigh. “You want to see what’s inside?”

  He meows, and I raise an eyebrow. I’ve lost the plot if I believe a cat can talk to me. I reach for the box and tug at the ribbon that’s holding the lid closed. My mouth falls open. Inside lies a stunning, silky red dress with a card on top.

  Looking forward to this evening with you.

  -Nik

  Nik and I have only been on two dates. He flew to London on a business trip shortly after we met. However, we kept in contact and Facetimed while he was gone, more times than I expected we would. He’s quite the charmer and appears to be very put together, unlike the other men I’ve dated in the last couple of years. Not one’s lasted more than a month. At this point, I’d argue I haven’t really dated them at all. They have all been…arrangements, merely something to fulfill my needs. I’m setting a record with Nik, but I expect him to reveal his skeletons soon enough.

  I glimpse at the tag and then do a double take. I grab my phone and dial Nik’s number to tell him I can’t accept the dress.

  “Sweetheart,” he answers, his voice low and warm, implying he’s not in a meeting yet.

  “Nik, I can’t wear this.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “It’s worth more than I have in my savings,” I admit as I pace around my apartment, which doesn’t take more than a few strides given how small the place is.

  “Ah, the price shouldn’t have been on there. It’s a gift,” he says coolly, like a dress that has four digits on the price tag is no big deal. Perhaps it isn’t for him. He probably spends triple this amount in a day. I’m not sure I’m comfortable with a gift this expensive, though, mainly since Nik and I are in the very early stages of getting to know each other. He must sense my discomfort, because he adds, “Just wear it, and I can return it tomorrow.”

  I consider this for a moment. It’s a lovely dress, exceptionally elegant, and I do require something to wear tonight. But I also know he won’t return the dress tomorrow, and can I truly begin to accept gifts from a man I don’t intend to have anything serious with?

  I’m overthinking. “Okay,” I finally say, hovering my fingertips over the smooth material of the dress.

  The event is a fundraiser to raise money for children who come from abusive homes. It’s a respectable cause, but it’s mostly for high-profile businessmen and women to make connections. It’s a reason for politicians, lawyers, journalists, and CEOs to dress up, have a few drinks, and entice each other into business deals that many will regret the following day. It all screams uncomfortable and rich. Not my type of scene, but I better get used to it if I ever want to see the inside of any of the top news companies in the country.

  Nik invited me as his date, and I’m not stupid enough to say no. It’s a perfect opportunity to get my name out there, to network.

  “I’ll pick you up at six.” Nik ends the call.

  When it’s just before five, I take a shower and apply some makeup. My job requires me to look presentable, and even though my sleep has improved in the last couple of years, I still have nightmares at least once every couple of weeks. The day after one of them, I appear to have risen from the dead.

  I glance in the mirror at my terrible endeavor at a smoky eye and attempt to fix it, but it’s as good as it’s going to get. I complete the look with glossy, nude lipstick. Running a curling wand through my hair, I yelp when it touches my ear. “Shit.”

  The dress fits tightly. It’s designed to cling to a woman’s curves, and I stand on my tiptoes in front of the mirror, scrutinizing myself from every direction. It does look good—I look good. I draw a breath and stand taller, straightening my posture. I own a few pairs of heels since my job contract explicitly states I wear them. Jennifer, my boss, is all about presentation.

  In my wardrobe, my eyes land on a pair of nude strappy heels that appear identical to Louboutin. The difference is they cost one-tenth of the price. When I slip on the second heel, there’s a knock at my door. I glance at the clock on the wall above the dusty blue counter in my kitchen. Six on the dot.

  I click the lock and pull the door open. The man in front of me stands six feet tall in graphite slacks and a light-blue dress shirt. His tie is the same color as my dress. I give him an approving smile. “You look rather handsome. I think I like you in blue.”

  He doesn’t reply. Instead, his liquid-steel eyes roam my body methodically, and I feel naked under his gaze. Heat rises to my cheeks, and I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

  “You look…” He clears his throat.

  “That bad, huh?” I joke to conceal my nervousness.

  Nik shakes his head, causing his short, midnight-black curls to sway. “Calla, I regret getting you that dress. All eyes are going to be on you.”

  My gaze travels to his and holds it. “Afraid that I’ll take the spotlight from you?” I smile, tilting my head to one side.

  “Definitely.” Nik places a soft kiss on my cheek. “Shall we?”

  Once outside, Nik opens the passenger door to his impressive Audi R8, and I carefully climb in. I salute him for having the courage to leave his three hundred-thousand-dollar car in this neighborhood. I’m surprised it’s still here and without a scratch.

  “How was work?” I ask when he gets into the driver’s side and presses the button that brings the car to life.

  I lean my head back into the seat and observe as his shoulders tense.

  “There’s a client trying to…fuck with me. Nothing that can’t be handled,” he adds, placing the car into drive and taking off down the street.

  I distract myself from the twenty-minute drive by maintaining the conversation. I ask Nik about his trip and question if he takes such long trips often.

  “More often than I like,” he replies.

  Even though I can now be a passenger in a car at night, I’m still nauseous every time. It’s been six years since the dreadful accident that took away my mom, and each day gets easier.

  Easier to breathe.