A Carpino Series Collection, Books 1-3 Read online

  A Carpino Collection

  Brynne Asher

  Contents

  Other Books by Brynne Asher

  Overflow

  Overflow

  Prologue

  1. The Laundry Room Goddess

  2. You’re An Accountant?

  3. You Ask A Lot Of Questions

  4. Making A Decision

  5. Cut Me To The Quick

  6. Beautiful

  7. If He Sang Everything He Said

  8. Free Fall

  9. Mine

  10. Let’s See How Easy It Can Be

  11. Tell Me You Get Me

  12. You Will Not Enjoy It

  13. Shoes

  14. Territorial

  15. Clunky

  16. Surprises

  17. Fill Me Up

  18. One More Surprise

  19. This is the FB (bleeping) I, Not Couples Counseling

  20. I’ve Got A Lot To Say

  21. Hang-ups

  22. I’ll Never Have The Words

  23. Christmas Eve

  Epilogue

  Overflow Bonus Scene

  About the Author

  Beautiful Life

  Beautiful Life

  Prologue

  1. Changes Are Coming

  2. Tony Torture

  3. Another Step

  4. Drink It In

  5. What Ifs

  6. It’s a New Year

  7. It’s Done

  8. You’re Coming Back to Me

  9. Sleep Naked

  10. The Way You Look at Her

  11. This

  12. Happy

  13. The Ugly Road

  14. You’ve Claimed It

  15. Soon

  16. Scary Specifically

  17. Madonna and the President

  18. You Love Me

  19. You’re Ready

  20. Let Me Be Yours

  21. Nothing Between Us

  22. Carpino Disaster

  23. Where Is She?

  24. April Showers Bring May Flowers

  Epilogue

  Beautiful Life Bonus Scene

  About the Author

  Athica Lane

  Athica Lane

  A Note from the Author

  1. Wet T-Shirt Contest

  2. Dadmire

  3. Sugar Daddy

  4. The Cleaning Fairy

  5. Sass, Sweet, and Wiseass

  6. Old Man Flat Butt

  7. Bekki with an i

  8. Keep Your Legs Together and Your Mind on Jesus

  9. Leave You Be

  10. Blue Ribbon of Bitchery

  11. Earth Shattering

  12. Boot Camp

  13. Inferno

  14. Break Out the Big Guns

  15. She’s Somethin’

  16. Hanging by a Thread

  17. I Know Without a Doubt

  18. Someone Different

  19. Control

  20. Ditto

  21. Taking A Turn

  22. Buttah My Butt

  23. Give You Everything

  24. That’s It

  25. Time Stands Still

  26. Hope

  27. War

  28. Home

  29. I Win

  30. Sick

  31. Now

  32. Get On With It

  33. Thank You, Baby

  Epilogue

  Athica Lane Bonus Scene

  Paige’s Pumpkin Cookies

  Double Broccoli

  Athica Lane Play List

  Other Books by Brynne Asher

  About the Author

  Other Books by Brynne Asher

  The Carpino Series

  Overflow – The Carpino Series, Book 1

  Beautiful Life – The Carpino Series, Book 2

  Athica Lane – The Carpino Series, Book 3

  Until Avery – A Carpino Series Crossover Novella

  Killers Series

  Vines – A Killers Novel, Book 1

  Paths – A Killers Novel, Book 2

  Gifts – A Killers Novel, Book 3

  Until the Tequila – A Killers Crossover Novella

  The Montgomery Series

  Bad Situation – The Montgomery Series, Book 1

  Broken Halo – The Montgomery Series, Book 2

  Standalones

  Blackburn

  Overflow

  The Carpino Series, Book 1

  Overflow

  Overflow

  Brynne Asher

  Published by Brynne Asher

  [email protected]

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  Brynne Asher’s Beauties

  Text Copyright

  © 2014 Brynne Asher

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s rights. Only purchase authorized editions.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, things, locations, or events is accidental.

  This book is a work of fiction.

  Dedications

  To my husband –

  Thank you for giving me my happily ever after twenty-two years ago in a parking lot at two o’clock in the morning. The rest has been icing on the cake. I love you.

  To Elle –

  Thank you for supporting me, encouraging me and reading this book nine million, four hundred and thirty-three thousand times. And thank you for teaching me to speak badass when nary a curse word ever passes your lips.

  Prologue

  “All rise,” the bailiff announces as the judge enters the courtroom.

  The defendant lazily pulls himself to his feet, throws his public defender a menacing glare, then turns his deep set brownish-yellow eyes to the floor in front of his table. He’s of medium stature, not big, not small, but hate and venom are set in his face. His mousy light brown hair is slightly dirty and slicked back with a few strands falling forward. The darkness around his sunken eyes are evidence of the life he’s chosen, those choices leading to him standing where he is today.

  The courtroom, now standing is silent and stagnant, the only thing heard are papers rustling as the judge settles to read the verdict handed over by the bailiff. The breath released audibly by the judge cuts through the courtroom like a knife, as he tosses his reading glasses to the desk. He hands the papers containing the judgment of the jury back to the bailiff.

  “Foreman of the jury,” the bailiff starts. “On the count of First Degree Murder, do you the jury find the defendant guilty or not guilty?”

  The Foreman clears his throat and answers, “Not guilty.”

  Immediately a mummer hovers over the room, forcing the judge to slam his gavel and demand, “Quiet! There will be no speaking while court is in session.”

  The media have assembled, crammed into the standing room only courtroom and are scratching notes, preparing for breaking news of the verdict for the high-profile crime.

  The bailiff continues. “On the count of Second Degree Murder, do you the jury find the defendant guilty or not guilty?”

  “Not guilty,” the foreman repeats.

  “On the count of Second Degree Murder with Aggravating Circumstance, do you the jury find the defendant guilty or not guilty?”

  The foreman takes a beat to pull in a breath, then answers, “Guilty.”

  Disregarding the judge’s demand for quiet, the courtroom becomes a mass of energy as those from
the media hastily exit the room, doors banging behind them, in hopes to be the first to report the verdict for the heinous crime that has shaken their community. The victims’ family can be heard shedding tears. Finally, the defendant’s brothers become wired and irate. These aren’t the kind of brothers one is born to. These are the kind of brothers one acquires through a life of crime and malevolence, requiring each other to survive.

  As the judge and the bailiff go through the intricacies of the court proceedings, polling the jury, and setting a date for sentencing, the defendant doesn’t hear a word.

  Instead, in his ill-fitting cheap suit the public defender provided, he glares across the aisle through evil eyes and immediately starts planning vengeance.

  Chapter One

  The Laundry Room Goddess

  Almost twenty-five years later.

  I cannot believe my eyes when I see a big, bulky body in black carrying a shield, looking through a little window at the top with a gun trained on us. Yep. That’s right. A gun pointed straight at us. The shield reads POLICE in white letters across the front and the big person yells, “Stop. Get your hands up where we can see them.”

  Megan stops, immediately letting out a high scream and I walk right into the back of her bumping her forward. We teeter on our heels, finally find our feet, but strangely enough we don’t put our hands up. Rounding the corner charge more big bodies in black wearing helmets, vests scribed with POLICE, donning black and gray camo pants with big black boots. But most importantly, I should note once again, they all have guns. Pointed. At. Us.

  “Put your hands up,” the guy in front screams again, even more impatiently. Seemingly, our hands finally listen to our brains because we both put our hands up, me still somewhat in back of Megan. “Move, hands to the wall, now,” he bellows. Our bodies finally wake up and we both shuffle to the wall.

  “What is going on?” Megan shrieks, at the same time I ask no one in particular, “What the hell?”

  “FBI and ATF,” a loud voice informs, coming from behind us. “We have a warrant to search the premises.”

  Megan, finding her bitch from within, and I’m thinking she didn’t have to dig deep, replies, “You can’t just barge into my house.”

  “Ma’am, we have a Federal Warrant to search your home so settle down, we’re gonna be here a while.” His tone is irritable to say the least.

  “How did you get in?” Megan demands.

  “Lady with the vacuum,” is the big guy’s only answer.

  “I can’t believe it. I’m firing them all,” Megan fumes, turning her face to the wall.

  Ohmygoodness.

  My heart is beating through my chest. I mean, I’m an interior decorator for heaven’s sake. How does this happen, standing in the hallway of my high school friend’s house with my hands against the wall? The past few years I’ve gone out of my way to make sure my life is mundane, if not seriously boring. I’ve lived through some not fun times and believe you me, I’ll take mundane any day of week.

  “We’ve gotta secure the premises,” the voice informs us. “But first I’ve gotta ask, do either of you have any weapons?”

  “Of course not,” Megan throws over her shoulder with a dirty look. “I have three small children—do I look like I would carry a weapon?”

  “Oh shit,” I mutter under my breath and squeeze my eyes shut as I drop my head between my arms.

  “What? You have a gun?” Megan screeches at the same time the air in the room goes tense.

  “Um…” I open my eyes to look up at her shocked face and then over my shoulder. “I have a license?” I say, but my answer comes out as a question to the big group of men dressed in black. “It’s in my purse, here I’ll get it for you.” I take my hand away from the wall, reaching for my silver and cream purse still hanging from my shoulder. But all of a sudden, my wrist is in a vice grip, pulled tight behind my back and I can’t help but let out a surprised scream.

  “Don’t move.” A new, deep raspy voice comes from in back of me. I find myself pressed flat with my chest against the wall, my other wrist joining the vice grip of the first, forcing my head to the side. “Why are you carryin’?”

  “Ah…well.” I’m at a loss for words, trying to take in my new precarious position. “I always have my gun with me. I have a Conceal and Carry—it’s in my purse. Look for yourself.”

  My purse is roughly yanked down my shoulder, the vice grip barely loses hold to get it off my arm. I see him toss it to someone in back of us before I hear the clanking of metal when suddenly, I sense them—cold and hard on my wrists. I suck in a breath and feel the metal bite into my skin, only to realize I’ve been handcuffed.

  “What?” my panicked voice whispers in a high pitch.

  “I cannot believe you have a gun.” Megan enunciates every syllable using all the drama she can muster, I’m sure. “You brought a gun into my house. You are crazy Gabrielle Carpino. Cra-zee!”

  I can’t concentrate on Megan’s drama. This is because all of the sudden I feel big, warm hands on my shoulders, sliding slowly down the sides of my cream silk tank, dipping under my breasts pressing just hard enough to make me shiver. The big hands hesitate slightly before pressing down my torso, rounding my waist, over my hips, and down the front of my thighs covering my gold pencil skirt with the cute little kick pleats along the back. I pull in a lung full of air when they glide over my ass and I feel warm hands come up my bare legs, one at a time, under my skirt on the inside of my thighs, causing an even deeper, very audible gasp.

  “She’s clear,” the deep voice drawls.

  I’m yanked around, the big hand now tight but not quite painful on my bicep and starts pulling-pushing me down the hall. I look up to the profile of the man dragging me through Megan’s house.

  He’s tall, with a good five inches on me in my heels. He’s taken off his helmet so I can appreciate his very dark hair, almost black, cut short but left a little longish on the top with a wave making it messy, I’m guessing from his helmet.

  I can’t help but think he looks good with helmet hair.

  My eyes move to his jaw, strong and square, even from the side. His complexion is dark, but not as if he’s spent time in the sun. No, it’s more like he has a hint of Latin or Hispanic in him, but like me, not fully ethnic. All of this, coupled with a day or two of stubble is such an appealing concoction that I can’t pull my eyes away.

  Since I’m gawking at the man dragging me through Megan’s house, I’m not paying attention to where he’s steering me. When my heel catches on an area rug, I stumble forward. I feel myself yanked upright by the big guy as he mutters, “Careful.”

  When I look back up, he’s glaring at me with eyes so brown they look like melted dark chocolate. His heavy brows are frowning, but I can’t take my eyes off the ultra-dark lashes framing those melty eyes, thinking most women would kill for those lashes. Still not fully paying attention, I find myself yanked around, a-freaking-gain, and pushed slash tossed, my ass landing on a sofa in Megan’s formal living room. As he stalks away, I try to pull myself up straight with my hands still cuffed behind my back, finding myself breathing hard.

  Only Megan Harper would get me into such a ridiculous state of affairs. Just fifteen minutes ago I was standing in her new laundry room—which I designed—watching a whole different version of ridiculousness play out in front of me. Thinking back over my morning as I sit here in cuffs for the first time in my life, I cannot believe I am where I am right now.

  My morning started with Megan squealing, “It’s amazing. Perfect. I cannot believe how much I love it!”

  My eyes move to my outrageous high school friend bouncing on her Manolo Blahnik sling-back, strappy heels, relishing the finishing touches of her new and absolutely ostentatious laundry room. I exhale, praying for patience as my head turns to follow the path of my eyes to fully take in Megan Harper, admiring the newly installed tumbled marble travertine floors. Standing in a laundry room that would rival some of the most amazing kitchen
s, I scrutinize my handy work—months of handy work—and look back over to my friend with a small smile. “I’m glad you’re happy, Megs.”

  “Happy? Happy?” she bursts. “I don’t know how we ever made do with the old one.”

  Seriously?

  It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes.

  Megan Harper and I went to high school together back in the day. She was from a fun, happy, middle-class family and we always ran in the same circles, though we were never BFFs. Now she exaggerates our friendship, stating I was the BFF she couldn’t have managed her high school years without, but whatever. That’s Megan. Dramatic. She always has been and it escalated to epic proportions when she married into money. We went our separate ways for college, her going to the University of Kansas, me staying close to home.