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Atone by Beth Yarnall
Recovered Innocence #2
Releasing February 23rd, 2016
Loveswept
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Beth Yarnall’s sexy and emotional
Recovered Innocence series continues as two broken souls discover that keeping
their hands off each other is even harder than facing their demons.
Beau: Six years. That’s how long I spent
behind bars for a crime I didn’t commit—the murder of the woman I loved. Now
I’m free, but life on the outside is a different kind of prison. I don’t know
who I am or who I want to be. At least I have my sister, Cora. She never
stopped believing in me. She even got me a job at the private investigation
agency that cleared my name. And then Vera Swain walks into Nash Security and
Investigations and kicks my world on its ass.
Vera: There’s only one thing that would
make me come out of hiding after two years on the run: finding my sister. I
made the mistake of telling a monster about her, the same monster who beat me
and broke me. Now I’m forced to confide in Beau Hollis of Nash Security and
Investigations. He looks at me like he knows me—the real me. He sees too much,
makes me feel too much. The pleasure he offers is exciting and
addictive. But I can’t fall for him . . . because my love could get us both
killed.
Don't Miss the first title in the Recovered Innocence Series
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Excerpt:
I
walked out of the California Institute for Men in Chino, California,
two thousand two hundred and seventy-one days—more than six
years—after I walked in. I was finally free.
Free.
I
don’t have the same definition that most people have for that word.
While I’m no longer serving a life sentence for a crime I didn’t
commit, I’m far from free. The repercussions of my incarceration
blasted every area of my life, pitting or obliterating everything in
sight. There isn’t a single thing left unscarred. I don’t have a
home. I don’t have friends. I don’t have a job or any
qualifications to get one. I don’t have any money. I don’t have
the same family I had on the day of my conviction.
And
I don’t have Cassandra.
There’s
a big gaping hole in me where she once lived. Of all the things that
were taken from me, she’s the one thing I can never get back. I
left her sleepy, naked, and sated in her bed almost seven years ago,
stealing out of her apartment with other things on my mind,
unimportant things. I had an early day the next morning and needed to
get home. I bent down, kissed her forehead, told her I loved her, and
left.
I
never saw her again.
She
was brutally raped and murdered that night.
I
haven’t been able to take a full breath since. Not because of my
subsequent arrest and conviction for her murder. That was nothing.
Well, not nothing.
It was definitely something. But it’s not why I can’t pull in
enough air. There’s a hole in my chest she used to fill. There’s
too much space and I can’t imagine or even remember what it felt
like to be whole. I’ve been walking around with this big, sucking
chest wound since the night she died.
I’m
raw yet scarred over. Little things scratch at me, reopening the
wound so it never truly heals. A song. The scent of jasmine. A movie.
A joke. Her name. I haven’t been able to say her name out loud
since I screamed it outside her apartment when her body was found and
the place crawled with law enforcement personnel.
I
see her everywhere.
I
get a glimpse of her at least once a day. Every time I turn my head I
have to remind myself it’s not her. It will never be her. I won’t
get to hold her hand, have her lay her head on my chest the way she
used to, or make love to her ever again. I can’t call her and tell
her about the stupid things that happened to me that day. She won’t
ever tilt her head up with the look in her eyes that was only for me.
I haven’t laughed in so long I’m not sure if I remember how.
My
sister, Cora, thinks I should see someone, a grief counselor. I don’t
want to. My grief is all I have left of Cassandra. Cora doesn’t
understand that. No one does. I can’t explain it. There are no
words for what it feels like to carry it everywhere. I’m pretty
sure it’s the only thing holding me together. I walk around, going
through the day-to-day of living, relying on those feelings to get me
through. What would I have without them? Who would I be? I’m not
the same man who left Cassandra’s apartment that night. I’ll
never be him again. I shouldn’t be him. I sure as shit shouldn’t
want to be him.
And
yet . . .
Sometimes
I wonder what it’s like to be normal.
What would happen if I took off this mantle of grief and laid it
down? Would I stop seeing Cassandra everywhere? Would the smell of a
common flower stop reminding me of her unique scent? Would I forget
what she sounded like, her laugh, and how she felt under me? Would I
lose her all over again, this time forever?
The
air outside of prison not only smells different, it feels
different. I’m not used to anything resembling normal life. I’m
still on a prison schedule despite having been out a couple months
now. My only rebellion is letting my hair and beard grow. I don’t
know who that man in the mirror is. He’s rougher, harder than he
was six years ago. He has scars and crude tattoos jabbed into his
skin by makeshift prison tattoo guns. He looks like he doesn’t give
a fuck about anyone or anything.
That
couldn’t be further from the truth.
Cora
arranged for me to come work with her. I think she’s hoping it will
give me something to aspire to. I’m lost. I don’t recognize
anyone or anything. I don’t know who or what I want to be. There
was a time when everything I wanted to do and be was lined up in my
head just waiting for me to tick them off like a fucking checklist.
Go to college. Check. Get a good-paying job. Check. Marry Cassandra.
Check. Buy a house. Check. Start a family. Check. Grow old with
Cassandra. Check.
None
of those boxes will ever be crossed off.
I
have to create a new list. But where do I start? I’m twenty-four
years old. I should be halfway through my checklist by now. Cora
tells me I can do or be anything I want. She pushes community and
technical college catalogs at me, trying to get me interested in
something. At night I lie awake and attempt to imagine my life a year
from now. All I see is me still
lying on Cora’s couch, still
struggling to figure my shit out. I’m frustrating her and myself.
Maybe this Take Your Brother to Work Day will give me some kind of
direction, even if it only helps me realize what I don’t
want to do.
Author Bio
Beth Yarnall writes romantic
suspense, mysteries, and the occasional hilarious Tweet. She discovered romance
novels in middle school and hasn’t stopped writing since. For a number of
years, she made her living as a hairstylist and makeup artist and co-owned a
salon. Somehow hairstylists and salons always seem to find a way into her
stories. Yarnall lives with her husband, two sons, and their rescue dog in
Orange County, California, where she’s hard at work on her next novel.
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