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Kristen's Addiction
An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
Kristen’s Addiction
ISBN 9781419917806
Kristen’s Addiction Copyright © 2008 Evangeline Anderson
Edited by Shannon Combs.
Photography and cover art by Les Byerley.
Electronic book Publication September 2008
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this is book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in
part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing,
Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of
this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or
print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement
without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and
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editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your
support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales
is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.
Evangeline Anderson
This one is for Shannon. Thanks for being such a great editor and helping me
achieve my dream of being a stay-at-home mom.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the
following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Audi S4: Audi A.G.
Barnes and Noble: Barnes and Noble College Booksellers, Inc.
Busch Gardens: Anheuser–Busch, Inc.
Disney World: Disney Enterprises, Inc.
Hells Angels: Hells Angels Motorcycle Corporation
The History Channel: A&E Television Networks
Jenny Craig: Jenny Craig, Inc.
Kool-Aid: Kraft Foods Holdings, Inc.
Magic Kingdom: Disney Enterprises, Inc.
Mercedes–Benz: Daimler AG Corporation
NASCAR: National Association for Stock Car Auto Racing, Inc.
Showtime: Showtime Networks, Inc.
Slim-Fast: Unilever Supply Chain, Inc.
Kristen’s Addiction
Chapter One
I am not a prostitute , I told myself as I dialed the number with trembling fingers. Not
a call girl, not a hooker, not a whore. I’m not any of those things. I am not desperate. I chose to
do this. I have to do this.
“Shit!” I muttered. My hands were shaking too hard to hit the right buttons. I hung
up and started again, wondering if I had finally waited too long this time. If the need
would overcome me before I could get what I had to have to survive.
Addicted. That’s what I was. But not through any fault of my own. It wasn’t as if I
were at a party and decided to try a hit of cocaine or a shot of heroin just for fun. I
would never do such a thing—I’m a medical doctor and I know better. No one slipped
anything into my drink either or got me to take a puff of something that was more than
a cigarette. If only it were that simple. The substance I craved was a hundred times
more powerful than any drug you could buy or prescribe and I had gotten addicted in
the worst way possible.
I was raped for my blood.
* * * * *
It had happened about five months before in the alley behind the garage where I
was getting my car fixed. It’s an eighty-seven silver Audi I love despite its
temperamental nature. I could afford better now that most of my school loans are paid
off—could probably be driving a new Mercedes for what the Audi costs me in parts and
labor alone. But my dad gave it to me—a present for getting accepted into med school
and I couldn’t bear to part with it. Besides, I hate car shopping with a passion. I’d tried
it several times when it seemed like the Audi was dead and there was no bringing it
back. Walking around on the hot tarmac in the sweltering sun, looking at rows and
rows of chrome and plastic and glass while being lied to by a misogynist in a cheap suit
is not my idea of a good time. Also, that nauseating new car smell everyone raves about
has been proven to be carcinogenic. So I was happy to find a mechanic who could and
would deal with my geriatric car in a timely manner and who stayed open late enough
for me to drop it off after office hours were over.
Joe, the mechanic who owned the garage down on Sixth and Nebraska, was a man
of few words. There was an almost savage silence about him that intimidated me
despite my best efforts not to be. He was large—huge might be more like it—with
muscles on top of muscles, all obviously earned through manual labor. I got the feeling
that he could probably raise my little car over his head without bothering to use the
hydraulic lift if he felt like it.
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