Unforgettable (Black Rose Doms Book 1)

  Unforgettable

  Black Rose Doms Book 1

  Rory Reynolds

  Copyright © 2020 by Rory Reynolds. All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including 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. For permission requests, email authorroryreynolds@gmail.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Cover Design by PopKitty Design

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Introduction

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Also by Rory Reynolds

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For all the mental health warriors… you’re seen.

  Unforgettable is a full-length dark romance that deals with sensitive subject matter that some readers may find distressing.

  Prologue

  Rose

  Christmas Day - 2009

  “Come on, Amara, they’re waiting,” the social worker says. I don’t even bother to correct her about my name again. My legal name is Amara Rose Thompson, but I’ve always gone by Rose. Something this woman can’t seem to be bothered with remembering. I guess I can’t be too upset considering she’s just ‘the social worker’ to me. Of course, she has a name, something generic like Jenny or Patty or maybe it was April. I don’t know, and I don’t care, my whole world has crumbled around me. Again. Social worker Sue puts her hand on my back to guide me faster up the cracked walkway towards the house.

  It could be any other house in middle-class America. Two stories, white clapboard, blue shudders, a large porch with a swing, red front door. I should be glad to be out of the girls’ home so quickly, especially during the holiday season, but what’s the point? Now I get to pretend holiday cheer with Mr. and Mrs. Perfect and their family when all I really want to do is curl up and die. The door opens before we even climb the steps to the porch, and Mrs. Perfect steps out with a toddler on her hip, a huge smile on her face.

  “Well, look at you, what a beautiful young lady,” Mrs. Perfect says her voice is dripping with fake enthusiasm, at least I’m pretty sure it’s fake. Who can be so cheery when they are getting the problem child no one else wants? “I am Mommy Marcia, and this here is Benny.” I kid you not, Mommy Marcia is how she introduces herself as if I will ever think of her as my mother. My mom is dead. With that thought, a wave of pain lances through my chest, and I feel like crumbling right here on the stairs. How do these people not see the pieces of me laying all over the place? I’m shattering, and no one cares.

  I’m not really here with these people. I’m locked deep inside my own mind somewhere in the darkest depths. Marcia takes me and social worker Jane on a tour of the house; kitchen, bathrooms, bedrooms, attic door (it’s off-limits she says, indicating the lock), last door on the left will be mine. There are two sets of bunk beds and two dressers, the walls are painted prison cell gray, the bedding is gray, the carpet is gray—super cheerful place. We are back down in the living room; I don’t even remember coming back downstairs. I’m drowning in my own personal sea of despair who cares about the grand tour. Social worker Sally pats my shoulder and reminds me that all I have to do is call if I need anything before leaving me with my new family.

  Yeah, like she really gives a rip about me and what I need. She was so damn excited to pawn me off on these people because no one else would take me. How do I know this, you ask? Well, because I heard her telling her boss, I’m impossible to place. No one wants a teenage foster kid with my kind of history. I’m what they call a frequent flyer. I have been in every group home in the county and probably thirty or more foster homes. My mom had issues, but I know she loved me in her own way. I know she tried, mostly, at least she always fought to get me back after she would fall off the deep end. She would pick herself up again, get clean, get me back, and then the cycle started over again. This time there would be no break in the cycle. This time it was over, and I got to watch as the light in her eyes flickered then went out.

  “Okay, girl, take your bags upstairs and get cleaned up, dinner is in ten minutes,” Mrs. Perfect says coldly. I knew she was fake. Over the years, I’ve become an astute judge of character, within moments of meeting someone I can tell exactly what their damage is. Fake isn’t Mrs. Perfect’s middle name. It’s her first. Fake Perfect, middle name yet to be determined, but if I had my guess, it will start with a B and rhyme with witch.

  “Okay,” I answer dully. I grab my bags—a ratty backpack and a black trash bag, only the best luggage for kids in the system—and make my way up to the room she indicated would be mine on the tour. I grab my few toiletries and shove the still packed bags under the bed before making my way to the bathroom. I try to tame my hair, but the thick waves are impossible since conditioner is a luxury, and anything beyond basic hygiene is not on the priority list at the group home. After a few minutes, I just give up and pull it into a stylishly messy knot on the top of my head. I wash my face and hands, then return my few things to my jail cell chic room.

  As I am shoving my things back into my bag, Mrs. Perfect screams up the stairs to put a move on, not knowing if it’s me she is yelling at or not I don’t answer. I’m startled when a voice comes from directly behind me. “You better hurry, he will be home any minute, and we gotta be at that table.” His voice a half-whisper. Even with the slight hiss from whispering, I can tell his voice is a deep baritone. He cocks his head to the side and tips his full lips up in a half-smile, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  I’m staring. I know I’m staring, but I just can’t seem to help it. He’s every teenage girl’s wet dream, and I just so happen to be a teenage girl. His hair is a warm shade of chocolate and flops over his forehead in a messy, careless kind of way. He’s tall, I can guess over six feet, but definitely much more than my pitiful five-foot frame. He is obviously older because he looks more like a man than a boy. Lucky him, he’ll be out of the system soon. He has on a well-worn pair of jeans that hang loosely off his hips and a black t-shirt that is tight across his muscular frame. After shamelessly checking out his body, I glance back up to his face. His smile has turned into a knowing smirk. He’s amused by my perusal, and that instantly pisses me off
.

  “Why the hell are you sneaking up on me?” I bite out. Even though my voice is barely above a whisper, the venom drips from every syllable. This is an emotion I can deal with, forgotten is the anguish from losing the only family I had, anger is my oldest and dearest friend. A welcome reprieve from the overwhelming sadness I’ve been drowning in.

  He looks slightly taken aback but quickly regains his footing. “Look, I wasn’t sneaking. You learn to be quiet around this place. And for your information, I was only trying to look out for you. Just because you’re new doesn’t mean you’ll escape punishment.”

  “Whatever,” I snarl as I shove past him, the contact of my shoulder against his arm sends a jolt of electricity through my body. I hurry down the hall towards the stairs. He catches up and grabs my arm before I make it past the first stair.

  His touch is like a shock to my system. Heat radiates from that one innocent point of contact, and my heart races at the unfamiliar sensation. I’m not naïve, I know all about sexual attraction, I’m young, but not stupid. I’ve kissed a few boys, had a boyfriend once… but I have never, ever felt a boy’s touch so acutely.

  From the surprised look on his face, I have to wonder if he feels it too. He quickly pulls his hand away and stares in shocked silence. He recovers faster than I do.

  “I’m sorry for startling you. Let’s not start off on the wrong foot here, okay?” He’s still mostly whispering, but his words are filled with some kind of emotion I don’t recognize. “Let’s start over. My name’s Matthew.”

  He holds his hand out toward me as if to shake my hand. I’m torn between wanting to see if that same electric charge happens again or if it was in my mind and wanting to walk away to protect myself. Making friends in places like this never ends well. A hard lesson I learned years ago.

  Even though it would be smarter to hang onto my residual anger—it’s the safest emotion—when I look into his eyes, I can see that he’s just like me. He’s been broken by circumstance. Forced into adulthood, much too young. His eyes are such a dark shade of blue, they’re nearly black, but even with that lack of color, they’re full of emotion. Those soulful eyes bore into me. Everything he’s thinking, everything he’s feeling, it’s all written plain as day in those dark eyes. This is why I reach out and grab his hand and risk another heartache. “Nice to meet you, Matty, I’m Rose.”

  His face breaks out in a hundred-watt smile when I call him Matty. I was actually trying to tease him, make him a little less overwhelming to the senses, but then he turns that smile on me, and I realize that I never had a chance. This boy is so going to break me into a million more pieces. “Likewise, Rosie Posey.”

  I roll my eyes at him and huff out a sigh, “Like I haven’t heard that one before.”

  Secretly it pleases me that he picked that nickname. It almost feels like fate. What are the odds that he would call me something only one other person in my life has used? My mom called me Rosie Posey on the rare occasions when she was clean. Maybe it won’t be so bad here after all.

  Summer - 2010

  “Okay, little girl, come on out of there.” I don’t know how he always manages to find me. No matter where I hide or what hole I crawl into, he always comes to save me from myself. “You know you’ll get punished if you’re late, and I’m not going in without you, so you’re signing us both up for punishment by hiding.”

  Slowly, I crawl backward out of my hidey-hole, gentle hands help me to my feet brushing dirt and cobwebs from my clothes. “Sorry, I just needed to be alone,” I say to my feet.

  A warm arm wraps around my shoulders as he hugs me to his chest. My breath catches in my throat as I fight back the urge to cry. “I know, sweetheart, I know,” he breathes. “Soon enough, I’ll be out of here, and I swear I will find a way to take you with me. I won’t leave you.”

  He’s right, he’ll be eighteen in a few weeks, and no longer a ward of the state. Then he’ll be able to leave this hellhole. I know he wants to find a way to take me with him. I don’t see the state letting me live with him and his degenerate friends when I have a perfectly wonderful foster family raising me. I can’t rain on his parade, though, so I put on my happy face and say, “I know Matty, and it’s going to be great.” He gives me another quick squeeze before leading me up the porch steps and back into Hell.

  Two weeks later

  We’re all gathered in our perfect dining room, in our perfect house, playing the part of the perfect family. Matthew will be eighteen tomorrow, and even though it looks like he’s made the choice to become a man and be out on his own, the truth of it is that Mr. and Mrs. Perfect are kicking him to the curb.

  No more state check, no more family. We’re only here while we’re useful, and then we’re gone. It sounds harsh, but I can’t wait to be gone. Christi says that she can’t wait until Matthew is gone so that I can start pulling my weight. I’m afraid of what she means by that since I already do more chores than the rest of the kids. I push that thought to the back of my head and try to enjoy the party.

  There’s a cake, but it’s so tiny we each only get a small bite. I have a serious sweet tooth, and sweets are strictly forbidden. So even though it came from the discount rack and is mostly stale, it’s the best thing I’ve tasted in months. I groan from pleasure as the sugary icing melts on my tongue. Matthew bumps my shoulder to get my attention, he’s looking down on me with that crooked smile of his. His dark blue eyes dancing with amusement.

  “Good?” he asks quietly, trying not to draw attention to us. I smile back and nod, he knows my weakness. He reaches over and takes my empty fork and glances around the room to make sure everyone is occupied before handing me his fork. It holds the best bite of cake out of the lot. He got first dibs since he is the birthday boy. He took full advantage of the privilege and plunged his fork right down into the center and took the softest bite of cake managing to get the big rose too.

  “Oh, no, I can’t take your bite,” I whisper. “It’s your birthday.”

  “I’m out of here tomorrow, sweetheart. I’ll be able to eat whatever I want. You’re here until I can get you out, and the next birthday is two months away.” I push back the ache at knowing I’ll be stuck in this house with these people alone. Matthew has become my saving grace. We became fast friends after that first night… and more. Without him, I’d have lost myself to my grief. He drug me back, kicking and screaming all the way.

  His next words take on a double meaning for me. “Savor it while you can,” he says. I know he means the cake, but I also savor this moment. I’m not an idiot. Despite Matthew’s best intentions, I know we are on the edge of good-bye. He’s moving out tomorrow. Moving on with his life. Matthew is the most honest and honorable person I’ve known in my life, but his idea to get me out of this place isn’t going to work.

  I want to run away, but he said that we need to get me out of here the right way. I’ve been around the block enough to know that the social worker doesn’t give a crap about me. She placed me here all those months ago, and I haven’t heard from her since. As far as the system is concerned, Mr. and Mrs. Perfect are just that—perfect.

  Matthew looks around the room again, making sure no one has picked up on our little conversation, since the coast is clear he nods for me to go ahead. Fearing that I will be caught, I shove the whole bite in my mouth and turn bright red when he starts to bust out laughing at my chipmunk cheeks. Playfully I elbow him.

  Ever have one of those moments when you can see exactly what is going to happen two seconds before it does, but you can’t do a damn thing to stop it? This is one of those moments. Matthew is easily a foot and a half taller than my five-foot frame with broad shoulders. He isn’t ripped like some of the other boys, but he is very defined, whereas I am skin and bones weighing in at a grand total of ninety-three pounds. I’m what you would call a tomboy if you’re being nice, a late bloomer if you’re being rude. The very idea that a little shove from me would move Matthew is ridiculous, but being who he is, he always play
s along like I’m Wonder Woman. He stumbles back a step knocking into Mrs. Perfect, who then bumps into a chair and drops the basket of dirty forks she was collecting from everyone. Jake saw me elbow Matthew and instantly tattled that I was the cause of Mrs. Perfect being bumped. In any normal household, this wouldn’t be a big deal. In fact, most people would probably just laugh it off and move on, but this isn’t a normal house. In this house, nothing is everything, and I just fucked up.

  “Downstairs, Rose, now!” Mr. Perfect bellows. I know not to cry, but my eyes don’t seem to want to listen, I can feel the tears burning the backs of my irises. I look up at Matthew, he is white as a ghost, and his hands are balled into fists at his sides. A slight jerk of my head tells him it’s okay, I can do this. I straighten my spine and walk to the basement without a word spoken. The door clicks shut, and a lock is engaged. The sound causes my body to tremble, it remembers what happens down here. “You’ve been a naughty girl Rose, now haven’t you?” Mr. Perfect sneers. “You know what happens to naughty children, don’t you, Rosie?”

  I hate it when he calls me Rosie as if he has every right in the world. I’m thankful in this moment, though, because his use of the nickname fills me with the anger I’ll need to survive this.