Easton

  Easton

  Copyright © 2017 K. Webster

  Time Served

  Copyright © 2017 K. Webster

  Cover Design: All By Design

  Photo: Adobe Stock

  Editor for Easton: ellie at Love N. Books

  Editor for Time Served: PREMA Editing

  Formatting: Champagne Formats

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.

  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.

  A note to the reader…

  Easton is a steamy, insta-love novella sure to make your heart swell. I’ve also included a small bonus story at the back about another couple called Time Served. Make sure you read about them too! I hope you’re enjoying these characters in this naughty little town. I’ve written many more that will be publishing this year, so keep your eyes peeled for those. Bad Bad Bad is available now where you’ll get your first look at the characters in this town. Plenty more hotness is coming your way! As always, thank you for reading my stories!

  Also…this book was formerly known as Preach. It was taken down by the Zon because of content. I’ve made some changes to accommodate them but rest assured that it doesn’t take away from the original story. If you read that other book, you won’t need to read this one. Thank you for supporting me!

  K Webster

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Synopsis

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Warning

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Epilogue

  Bonus Story—Time Served

  Playlist

  Books by K Webster

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  A man who made countless mistakes.

  A woman with a messy past.

  He’s tasked with helping her find her way.

  She’s lost in grief and self-doubt.

  Together they begin something innocent…

  Until it’s not.

  His freedom is at risk.

  Her heart won’t survive another break.

  All rational thinking says they

  should stay away from each other.

  But neither are very good

  at following the rules.

  A deep, dark craving.

  An overwhelming need.

  A burn much hotter than any hell

  they could ever be condemned to.

  He’ll give up everything for her…

  because without her, he is nothing.

  Matt, I love you, honey.

  The hunger for love is much more difficult to remove than the hunger for bread.

  Mother Teresa

  WARNING:

  Easton is a story about a preacher man and a troubled young woman. There is an age gap that some may not like. Additionally, there are some scenes that happen within a church that you may not feel comfortable with. I do make one request. If you offend easily or have any triggers with unconventional relationships or age gaps or religion, please don’t read this story. It is an insta-love novella all the way. This story isn’t for everyone. However, if you stick with it, I believe you’ll truly enjoy the love story I’ve written for you.

  “This is the start of a very bad joke,” Dane says with a laugh as he holds open the door to the bar. “A preacher, a judge, and a gay man walk into a bar…”

  I snort at my friend I’ve known since we grew up in the same neighborhood. “Very bad joke. So bad, don’t even tell it.”

  Max, the judge of our stupid joke, laughs as he saunters in and heads straight for our favorite table. “Oh, and look, our joke just got even more lame.” He waves at our friend Rick. “Sheriff. Good seeing you here.”

  Dane chuckles as he makes his way to the bar to order our drinks. Rick strolls over to us with his friend Brandt and shakes our hands.

  “I thought you were still in jail,” Rick jokes.

  “Ha. Ha,” I grunt.

  “Seriously though,” Rick says with a wicked grin. “Won’t God strike you dead or some shit for bar hopping?”

  “Jesus did love his wine,” I argue.

  Dane shows back up and hands me a bottle of Bud. “Our boy Easton here is allowed to leave the stuffy confines of that church every now and again for a boys’ night. Sheriff, you’re just lucky God didn’t strike you down for boning a teenager.”

  Brandt smirks and Rick jabs him with his elbow.

  “And you’re lucky God didn’t strike you down for looking at my ass,” Rick retorts to Dane.

  “You losers do realize God doesn’t strike people down, right?” I laugh before I take a sip of my beer. “He just waits until you die to send you to hell where you’ll burn in intense agony for all of eternity.”

  Max starts laughing along with Brandt while Rick flips me off.

  “Way to be a fucking buzzkill, man,” Dane grumbles.

  “Your ten o’clock is already here,” Lucinda, Brown’s Church of Christ’s secretary, chirps as I saunter past her. The woman is older than my mom but much more chatty. She’s a nice lady though and cares for this church as though it’s her own. We have that in common for sure. “She went to the restroom but will be back soon. Shall I send her in?”

  My head is throbbing and I could go for a bacon cheeseburger right about now. Going out with Dane and the boys was a lame idea knowing full well I had an appointment this morning.

  “Please,” I grunt as I walk into my office with my motorcycle helmet under my arm. “Send her in. Can you bring me some coffee when you get a minute? Also, whatever you want, Lucinda, and it’s yours. I owe you.” I toss the helmet on my desk with a loud thud and fall into my squeaky leather desk chair.

  The heavyset woman with greying brown hair shuffles into my office with a wide smile and steaming cup in her grip. “You always look a little worse for the wear on Saturdays,” she says in a conspiratorial tone. “I knew you’d be needing this. But I might take you up on that offer later.”

  I smile gratefully at her as she sets it down on my desk beside my Bible. The same Bible that got me through some tough times when I was incarcerated. It was the one my dad brought to me not long after I went to prison. Finding a job after all the crap I went through was nearly impossible. If it weren’t for my father, a deacon at this church, I’d probably still be living at my parents’ house trying to sort out my life. Luckily, the church believed in forgiveness and wanted to give me a shot. That was ten years ago, and I’ve been happy ever since. Had you asked me when I was eighteen what I wanted to be when I grew up, I’d have said a mechanic or something. Not a damn preacher.

  But here I am.

  And truth be told, I love it.

  At first, it was rocky getting people to trust me but I kept at it. With my dad’s encouragement and guidance, I powered through the hard times. It’s truly been a blessing and I feel as though I’m helping people. And that’s always been my goal.

  My thoughts drift to the moment things in my life began to change for the better.

 
“A week in the hole ain’t bad, runt,” a gruff voice grunts nearby.

  My hackles raise and I fist my hands, ready to battle. Last week, three thugs tried to do the unthinkable to me. I was naked and showering when they rushed me. All I could imagine was how horrifying it would be to get raped by three grown ass men. It’s something my fucking friends and I would joke about all the time about people in prison. ‘Don’t get ass raped.’ But there I was in fucking prison trying not to get my ass torn out by a trio of black motherfuckers. Rage, like I’d never known before, reared its ugly head. When the shank poked into my thigh and the first prick pressed his hard cock against me, I went mental. Woke up with two swollen shut eyes, bruises all over the fucking place, and a broken rib. Yet my ass was intact.

  Black.

  That was my mental state.

  Black. Black. Black.

  Instinct took over and my mind shut down.

  The warden and the officers interrogated me on what happened, but I couldn’t remember a goddamned thing. All I could remember was the guy on me and then black. That’s what I told them too. They weren’t too fucking impressed with my answer. Promised all kinds of shit that pissed me off, including an extended sentence. I’m still waiting to hear back on that one.

  “Runt,” the voice says again. “I’m talkin’ to you.”

  My left eye is still swollen so I can barely see out of it. I turn to put a face to the voice and wince when I’m staring at nearly seven feet of solid brown muscle. The dude is intimidating as fuck. Tattoos all over his dark flesh making him seem darker. He even has tatts on his face. Who the fuck gets tattoos on their face? I’ve got one on my back because I thought I was a badass and knew it would piss off my religious parents. Dad was disappointed that I’d ruined my ‘temple’ with a skull and flames. Mom threw her phone at me. But this guy has them everywhere.

  “A week too long,” I grumble back at him.

  “Speak up, boy, when you’re talking to your elders.”

  His tone reminds me of my dad and it pisses me off.

  “Go to hell, asshole,” I grind out, my voice a near bellow. “Did you hear that, old man?”

  He shakes his head and thumps me in the head. I fist my hands but keep from pummeling him because the hole was a nightmare and I’m not looking to go back anytime soon.

  “I’m not going to hell. Christ died upon that cross so that my sins could be absolved,” he tells me simply. “I’m saved by the blood of Jesus. Question is, where’re you going, runt?”

  Oh fuck me.

  As if my life hasn’t been eighteen years of living in the shadows of my Bible thumpin’ parents.

  “Apparently I’m going nowhere for the next ten years or so,” I snap. “And your Bible shit won’t work with me. I know all about Jesus. Mr. Perfect. Just like my fucking dad.”

  The black guy snorts and thumps me in the head again. “You’re an angry little shit, aren’t ya?”

  “You can’t say shit, Bible man. Jesus will condemn you to hell,” I mock with a smirk.

  He studies me with narrowed eyes. “You read that in The Bible?”

  “Thou shall not use thy Lord’s name in vain,” I say in my best preacher voice.

  “You really are stupid, runt. I’ve got a lot to teach you. Keep you outta trouble ‘round here. Nobody messes with a friend of Tom Cat. Question is, are you gonna be a friend to ol’ Tom Cat?”

  I clench my jaw. “Usually friendships around here come with stipulations. I’m nobody’s bitch, old man. What kind of name is Tom Cat anyway?”

  “My name,” he mutters. “Thomas Catalina. And I don’t think my ma would like it if I got myself a little boyfriend.”

  I’m not little.

  I stand well over six feet and am filled out from playing football in high school. He’s just a motherfucking giant.

  “What do you want in return?” Everyone wants something in return.

  “I want you to listen to what I have to say.”

  I laugh and shrug. “So tell me.”

  “Not just now. Every day. I’m going to help you work through that darkness you struggle with,” he tells me simply.

  “I don’t struggle with—”

  He thumps me in the forehead again. Fucker is going to give me a bruise.

  “Stop fucking thumping me,” I roar, causing a few bystanders to cast amused glances our way.

  Asshole thumps me again. “You ain’t gonna do shit about it, runt. Now get your ass a Bible and get back over here. Class is in session beginning now.”

  Who needs hell when you’re stuck in prison with a seven-foot Bible thumper dead set on helping you get your gigantic chip off your shoulder?

  “Whatever, man,” I grumble as I start away from him.

  This time, he thumps me in the back of the head. “It wasn’t a request, boy. Get your shit. You have two minutes.”

  Ten minutes later and we’re sitting across from each other in the middle of the rec room with our Bibles open. It’s every bit as awkward and irritating as it’s been the past two years when my dad has tried to help me. For two years, I’ve been drifting further from my family and reality.

  “Who’d you lose?” Tom questions as he puts on some black-rimmed reading glasses. He opens his Bible and thumbs through it. When I don’t answer, his dark brown eyes lift to mine. “Real men speak when they’re spoken to. Are you a real man?”

  I grit my teeth. “Whatever you’re doing isn’t going to work. My dad already tried.”

  Tom shrugs. “I’m not doing anything. I’m simply going to read some verses and shoot the breeze with my friend. Friends talk to each other, runt.”

  As much as it pains me to admit it, I am lonely as fuck. The very idea of having a friend in here—albeit a persistent one—sure beats the alternative. With a sigh, I tell him what he’s so clearly dying to hear.

  “My older brother died two years ago when I was just sixteen. He was eighteen and had a future ahead of him. When I found his blue body on his bathroom floor, his cheek in a puddle of vomit, it gutted me. He’d overdosed on pain pills that weren’t even prescribed to him. They weren’t able to revive him and he died that day.” My throat is hoarse with emotion but I swallow it down. I refuse to cry in front of him or any of the other inmates around here. “I was happy before then. Normal, like any other teenager. But then, I got angry.”

  He gives me a nod of his head to proceed.

  “It was Dad’s fault. He was too hard on him. Nothing was ever good enough. I was the golden child and Elias was the troubled one. I guess…I guess I…”

  “Gave your pops hell to punish him?” he quips.

  I shrug. “Something like that. I drifted from my parents—especially Dad—and then spun further out of control. Wrong crowds. That sorta shit.”

  “Have you ever just talked to your pops about his take? I’ve got three boys of my own. Before I got locked up fourteen years ago, I wasn’t good at talking to my kids. Jamal, my middle boy, got involved with the Crips. It wasn’t until I got a call from the police at work one day that I was told just how involved my boy was. They cut my boy’s throat.” His gaze hardens for a moment but then he gently unfolds a creased page in his Bible. “I wish I’d have been there for him and talked about why he was drifting. Their momma left us not long after the youngest was born. It was just my ma and I raising those boys.”

  “How’d you end up here?” It’s probably rude to ask but he’s a prying bastard too.

  “Murder.”

  I gape at him. “For how long you in?”

  His nostrils flare. “Life, runt. I’m in here for life.”

  My blood runs cold in my veins. “Who’d you kill?”

  “I found out which gangster killed Jamal and I returned the favor. When his friend tried to stop me, I stabbed him. There was a third gang member that tried to shoot me. Kid couldn’t have been older than fifteen…” His eyes soften and he swallows. “I killed him too.”

  I hear people talking about moments in
their lives that spark a change. I’d thought it was bullshit. But right here, right now, talking to this badass motherfucker in for murdering three people who were involved in his son’s death, I realize maybe people have bigger problems out there than mine. It also makes me yearn to talk to my dad. Would he have wanted vengeance if someone had murdered one of his boys?

  I think about my dad’s hard scowls he always wears. I used to think he was fierce when I was a kid. I’m pretty sure had someone else hurt Elias and not Elias, Dad would have gone crazy.

  And that puts a smile on my face.

  “Easton,” Lucinda chirps, waving her hand in front of me in a nervous manner.

  I blink away my daze. “What’s up?”

  “You don’t have any more appointments after this one,” Lucinda says, her bright smile falling. Her brown eyes drop to her hands that she now wrings together. “I was wondering. You see, I…”

  I lift a brow. “Do you need to leave early?”

  Her eyes dart to mine and her wrinkled cheeks turn pink. “I know it’s my job and it’s sort of a nightmare to lock everything up but—”

  “Lucinda,” I cut her off with a wave and a grin. “It’s fine. I’ll take care of it. Besides, I owe you for the coffee,” I say with a wink as I take a sip. “Is Bobby still here cleaning?”

  “Oh,” she breathes. “Thank you. My grandson has a T-ball game and I don’t want to miss it. Bobby left about ten minutes before you got here. It’s just you and Miss Greenwood.”

  “I can handle locking up. I’m only scheduled for the counseling session for an hour. I can’t do too much damage to the church in that time,” I tease and then sip on my hot saving grace.

  She blanches. “Oh, Easton, don’t even joke about that.”

  Laughing, I wave her on. “It’s fine. Scout’s honor. Now stop fretting and go. Boss’s orders.”