CRAVE
Copyright © 2015 by BJ Harvey
Edited by Lauren McKellar
Cover Designed by Najla Qamber of Najla Qamber Designs
ISBN: 978–0-9941257–1-2
Photography: Kelsey Keeton of K Keeton Designs
Models: Storm Bailey and Cameo Hopper
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
I have a craving.
A dark urge I’ve failed to resist despite years of trying to do that very thing.
I’ve forced myself to hide behind a mask, a perfect orchestration to hide my true self.
After I met her, my wants and needs, my inner most desires changed.
She encouraged me to embrace who I truly am, and she was willing to do anything and everything I wanted, giving herself to satisfy my most carnal appetite.
Then everything in my carefully managed world came crashing down around me. A moment in time, a loss of control, and the very thing I cherish was nearly taken from me.
My fate now lies in her hands.
The very life I’ve built for myself . . . everything I’ve ever done now waits in purgatory, all caused by a lack of focus at a time when my most concentrated attention was needed.
The very thing I crave may now be the end of me.
To anyone who has ever wanted to give up on something,
And never did.
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Author Links
Books by B.J. Harvey
Another event, another night spent wearing my well-worn mask.
I show the world what they want to see. No, what they expect to see. A nationally renowned architect with iconic buildings attributed to his name attracts attention and garners certain expectations. I’m expected to be approachable, respectable, inspiring, and well put together. And from the outside, I’m all of those things. A good man from a great family, a man who rose to recognition for designing a few buildings that inspired national pride, and doing it by showcasing the best of modern architectural techniques.
I lean against the room’s corner bar. Catching my reflection in the mirror behind the top shelf, I square my shoulders, standing up tall as I try my best not to look foreboding and unapproachable. The event may be in my honor, but I’m not ignorant to its true purpose—to raise funds from the college alumni on the back of my latest feat. The great Callum Alexander success story is the gift that keeps on giving, it seems.
Cradling my glass of Glenlivet, I peruse the room with unabashed indifference. I don’t care whether I’m here or not. To be honest, I’d rather be in my own secluded sanctuary, sitting back in my black leather chair looking out toward the bay. Instead, I’m wearing a tailored black Tom Ford tuxedo in a room full of fellow chameleons making incessant small talk about inconsequential matters.
Everything I do—the way I act, the car I arrived in, even the label on the suit I wear—all matter. I fit the mold when I’m like this. In this setting, my own chameleon costume is in its element—I’m making small talk with university staff, professors keen to discuss their latest batch of students, star-struck kids hoping to get even a toe in the door, and even benefactors hoping to pull me into the ‘old boys’ club.’ Everyone has an agenda; everyone wants a small piece of me. That’s why I’m more reserved at functions like this. I sit back, I watch, and I rarely engage with others unless they approach me.
There are many layers to my disguise, my public persona. Very few people get an insight into the real Callum Alexander—my family and my best friend, but that’s all. Everyone else gets this Callum, the well-respected, well-regarded, successful man living the American dream. Sacrificing a lot and remaining in control at all times is what I’ve had to do, but that may have something to do with my desired predilections more than anything else.
I shake my head as my thoughts go down an entirely inappropriate track for an event such as this, adjusting my pants discreetly as I down the rest of my drink. I set my glass on the bar and signal to the barman to prepare another. When it arrives, I head toward the front of the large hotel ballroom, trying not to think the dark thoughts that are starting to blur the edges of my seemingly bright life.
I walk through the crowd of mingling people with a narrowed brow, my lips are drawn into a thin line as I search the room for a familiar face but come up empty. The looks I get in return tell me my mask must be askew tonight. It’s somewhat understandable; my mind is elsewhere. I’m too busy considering why I bother with the wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing facade. I’ve worked hard and foregone a lot to get where I am today and have continued to do so in order to maintain it. To lose it all now would be unfathomable.
A man who could easily have been a mirror image of myself ten years ago steps into my path with his hand out. “Mr. Alexander?”
I take a moment to study him. He’s just short of my six foot two -inches, with broad, confident shoulders and a tailored suit that’s no doubt equally as expensive as mine, a sign that he definitely comes from money. His almost black hair is slicked to the side and back off his face, adding character to his fresh, bright-eyed and hopeful expression as he looks at me.
“I’m such a big fan of your work,” he says. My chest tightens at his adulation.
I return his handshake. His grip is strong, firm, but not threatening. There is no semblance of ego in this exchange. “I’m in my third year, and we’ve been studying your designs this semester ahead of tonight’s event,” he continues.
My eyes widen at his revelation. I know my recent designs have been noteworthy but I’m only thirty-four. When I was a student, we studied the greats. Not a fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants modern designer lucky enough to catch a big break—twice.
“Thank you. I hope you haven’t been studying my work too closely. You might find something to improve on,” I add with a wink. His eyes widen and his mouth drops open momentarily before he quickly composes himself.
“No chance of that happening, Mr. Alexander. Your concept for Spera House in Boston was genius. Inspired. The way you contrasted the stark lines of modern concrete with the curves of the building’s historical neighbors was amazing.”