Evangeline Anderson - Kristen's Addiction.pdf - Anderson, Evangeline - riochin

An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

www.ellorascave.com

Kristen’s Addiction

ISBN 9781419917806

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

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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.

K RISTEN ’ S A DDICTION

Evangeline Anderson

Dedication

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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