Finding Love's Wings

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

Part Eight

Part Nine

Part Ten

Part Eleven

Part Twelve

Part Thirteen

Part Fourteen

Part Fifteen

Part Sixteen

Part Seventeen

Part Eighteen

Part Nineteen

Part Twenty

Part Twenty-One

Part Twenty-Two

Part Twenty-Three

Part Twenty-Four

Part Twenty-Five

Part Twenty-Six

Part Twenty-Seven

Part Twenty-Eight

Part Twenty-Nine

Part Thirty

Part Thirty-One

Part Thirty-Two

Part Thirty-Three

Part Thirty-Four

Part Thirty-Five

Part Thirty-Six

Part Thirty-Seven

Part Thirty-Eight

Acknowledgements:

About The Author:

FINDING LOVE'S WINGS

Zoey Derrick

Cover completed by Olivia Rivers with permission from
www.fotolia.com
. Olivia can be found on Twitter @RiversOlivia. Cover material and photos (c)
Fotolia.com

This book was edited with the help of Sione Aeschliman, Owner of Sione Aeschliman LLC out of Portland, Oregon. Sione has been my rock, my constant and the light that has kept this project moving forward, without her, this book would not be in your hands. You can visit her on Twitter at
www.twitter.com/writelearndream
or on her website
http://sioneaeschliman.blogspot.com
 

Copyright © 2013 Zoey Derrick

All rights reserved.

ISBN:

ISBN-13:

The following is a fictional novel and the characters represented here are not only over the age of 18, but full consenting adults who have only coincidental resemblance to real live people. The location of this story is called Tarah, and please know that this location exists only in my head.. Or at least this version of this location, any resemblance of someplace real is coincidental and if you know of a place like this, send me an e-mail, I need a vacation.
 

Finding Love’s Wings is copyrighted 2012 and 2013 by Zoey Derrick and all rights are reserved. So here is the legal jumble.. Ready?
 

Without limiting rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, introduced into a retrieval system, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including without limitation photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. The scanning, uploading, and/or distribution of this document via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and is punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrightable materials.
For permission requests, email [email protected]

For Mom, without your undying support, this would not be possible. Thank you, for everything.
 

PART ONE

I have this distinct feeling that something is off, but I can't put my finger on what it is. As I pull into the parking spot near Reed's condo, the dreaded "something is not right" feeling courses stronger through my body. His car is here, right next to me, so I know he's here. And I can hear music coming from the window, which is wide open despite the ninety-five degree temperature. Typical weather for June in Phoenix, but most people would have the house closed up and the A/C blasting.

Reed is about five feet six inches tall. Not very tall, but about two inches taller than I am. He is very broad shouldered and muscular, with that perfect V at his hips. He just has an air of sexiness about him.
 

I met Reed at a bar about six months ago, and we hit it off pretty well. Really well, in fact. We ended up in bed together that same night. We've been seeing each other casually since then, but it's strange: we very rarely ever go out; it's usually just he and I in bed together. I'm not sure that we can be considered a couple, but we've been exclusive to one another since we met.

As I step out of the car, I take a deep breath. Pulling myself together, I head for the door. It's unlocked, which isn't unusual when he's expecting me, even though I have a key to his place. But when I enter the house, I hear a strange noise. I listen carefully, and over the beat of the music there it is again: a weird mewling noise that I can't immediately place.
 

"Killer Queen" by Queen is crooning through the bedroom stereo system. Reed loves his rock music, and Queen is a bit mellow for him. "Reed?" I call out. The music drones on, so I start singing quietly to myself as I make my way toward his bedroom. As I climb the stairs the music changes, though the song isn't over yet. It switches over to Adele's "Rumor Has It," but not before I catch the sounds again.

Are you fucking kidding me? I think. This rat bastard is sleeping with someone else. The woman moaning is a dead give away. I should turn around and walk out the door.

Instead I make my way further up the stairs, but I stop when I see that his bedroom door is wide open and catch an eye-full of the woman with him. She is mounted on top of him, riding him. Moaning like a cat in heat while she rubs at his chest. He has his hands on her breasts and is rolling her nipples between his thumb and forefinger. She throws her head back and moans again.
 

I would stomp up the stairs and barge in except I feel that familiar warming between my legs as I watch this display. I feel frozen in place. After a couple of minutes I realize I'm in danger of being caught, and I decide that discretion is going to be the better form of valor, so I turn around and get the hell out of the house.

As soon as I shut myself back in my car I start cursing and screaming at the top of my lungs. "That asshole. Why am I not surprised? He has no regard for anyone or anything. What the hell? Well I guess this explains the funny feelings. UGH!!!!! I'm so mad I could spit nails. What in the hell was he thinking? What in the bloody hell was I thinking? Oh, fuck this shit!"
Driving myself the ten minutes back to my apartment is uneventful as I contemplate what to do next. 

After about an hour of pacing, ranting, and trying to decide what to do, I grab my little carry-on suitcase and throw in a few changes of clothing. I need to get out of this town. Somewhere tropical. With beaches. Dammit, I need a vacation.

On my way to the airport, driving down forty-fourth street, I come across a billboard for the upcoming
Love Is Burning
movie. Up there, in all his twenty-foot tall glory, is the beautiful face of Tristan Michaels.

Looking up at his beautiful face is slowly washing away all the angst of the last couple of hours. For the last five years, I've been staring at his face in the magazines that grace the grocery store aisles. Looking at him gives me the strangest sense of security, protection, and need, but what that need is, I've never been able to figure out.

"I bet you'd never cheat on woman with another woman while the first one is on her way over, would you?" I ask his image. Those eyes seem to see right into my soul.

The car behind me honks. The light has changed.

At the airport I email Mick and Beau from my phone, letting them know that I’m headed to L.A. I know they will worry when they don't hear from me tonight. Beau is my best friend and a personal assistant to me. Mick is my financial genius, and the closest thing I have to a dad.
 

I received a text from Reed while I was en route to the airport, asking where I was. I decide that I should reply to him. My text is dripping with an anger that I'm pretty sure I no longer feel.

I turn off my phone as soon as I know my text has been sent to Reed. I know that leaving it on will mean I will start getting calls or emails from Reed, Beau and Mick. I need to make my escape without anyone convincing me otherwise.

I know that before I even land at my final destination –wherever that is – Mick or Beau will have tracked the ticket. It's fine if they know the where, but I don't want them to know why. Not right now at least. Because if I'm completely honest with myself, I'm not even sure I know why I'm running.

I make my way to the US Airways counter. After twenty minutes of shuffling through the options, I have a first class ticket on a flight from Phoenix to Los Angeles with the intention of spending the night. I'm really looking forward to going on vacation, but I have business in L.A. that needs to be dealt with first.

From L.A. I'll be heading to Honolulu, where I will connect with a flight to Tahiti. I've been in Tahiti before — it was the summer after my mom passed away and I loved it – so when I found out the option was available I took it. However, I have no intention of staying in Tahiti, either.
 

While I was there the last time, some of the locals told me about the island of Tarah, located about a four-hour boat ride or a thirty-minute helicopter hop from the Tahiti airport. Tarah is a very small, and very private, island. The island is frequently visited by celebrities and many others seeking anonymity. Someplace, I'm sure, I have no right to hide, but I'm going anyway. The island is tropical year-round and mostly inhabited by English-speaking French Polynesians and Australians, which is a huge bonus in my book.

Walking past all the magazine shops, bakeries and coffee shops on the way to my gate, I notice one thing in common all along the way: Tristan Michaels is everywhere I turn. Whether his image is splashed all over promotional magazines for his upcoming movies or on the raunchy tabloids citing the unnecessary and nasty rumors that make their way through the world of entertainment, he is beautiful as ever and I cannot pull my eyes away from him.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Tristan, you have to help me." I roll my eyes toward the vast, wide-open space of Nokia Theater in downtown Los Angeles. Layla, my girlfriend – well a loose interpretation of the word girlfriend – is arguing with me off in the corner of the reception area. Having just come off of the red carpet, I'm extremely irritable, and she decides that now is the perfect time for an argument.
 

Thank God that everyone is converging at the bars on the other side of the room. I can see Travis, surrounded by women and fans. Thanking my lucky stars that where Layla and I are standing is devoid of any other people. Though it's a bit conspicuous.
 

Layla is angry. Downright pissed, if you want the truth of it, and her face is starting to turn red.
 

"I need to do no such thing, Layla. This is your damn mess, you fix it." My voice is a harsh growl. We are in the lobby of a theater, at Travis's premier for God's sake. Of all the places in the world that she can bring up this mess, she decides to do it here, tonight.
 

"Tristan, I can't. They've tried and the magazine wants nothing to do with what I have to say." She is breathing heavy, her temper starting to flare. Her pupils are dilated and I have no doubt that she's high on something. This seems to be the new normal for her.
 

"Well, I'm not the one in the pictures, so why should I stop this story?"
 

"Because you love me? Because it affects you? Because you care about me? I don't care, pick a reason. Why would you want to see me destroyed?"

Words fail me. As little as a year ago, I would have done anything for Layla. I would have bent over, broken, and picked up the phone right this second to have Trinity working at getting this story stopped. But no, not this time. I'm not going to defend her anymore. I can't. "There is no logical reason for me to fix your mistakes. You made it, you lay in it." I turn to walk away and she grabs my arm. I turn back to her. "Let go of me." My anger is becoming palpable. Her grip sends a shiver of disgust through my body.

"Tristan, please." Her voice is low, pleading.
 

She looks so pathetic, broken, and for a minute I start to feel sorry for her. But it takes only a moment for her own history to go flying through my mind. She's the product of being coddled by her parents. She was handed everything in life that she ever wanted. They're extremely wealthy, and she lacks for nothing. She has never had to fight for the things she wants; she has been handed them. She doesn't know what it is like to be alone in the big bad world, and because her parents fix everything for her, she doesn't have Clue One about how to fix her own mistakes. "Why don't you go running to Daddy? I'm sure he can find a way to fix this for you."