Love Taker- Erin McCarthy

Love Taker is a work of fiction. Names, places, and
incidents either are products of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance
to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.
A Loveswept Ebook Original
Copyright © 2017 by Erin McCarthy
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States of America by
Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division
of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Loveswept is a registered trademark and the
Loveswept colophon is a trademark of Penguin
Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN 9780425284612
Cover design: Diane Luger
Cover photograph: astarot/Shutterstock
randomhousebooks.com
v4.1
ep
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
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
Epilogue
By Erin McCarthy
About the Author
Chapter 1
He was busier than a one-armed monkey
with two peckers.
Elle Hart fended off her latest guy, an on-
the-rise guitarist named Nathan, and realized
there was a reason for his success shredding
the strings. He had manic hands. They were
everywhere.
Trying to extract herself from him yet
again, she found there was no room to shift
out of his range in the crowded bar. So not
only was he trying to grab her no-nos, he was
doing it in full view of three dozen people.
Not the way she wanted to be spending her
evening. But the bastard was good-looking
and she fell for that every single goddamn
time. She was like a magpie—drawn to
pretty. Pretty men were always basically
pricks and she knew it. Lord, she knew it.
Then, every single time, she thought it might
just be different this go-round.
She used to tell her sister Jolene that she
was a perpetual optimist, but really what she
was was perpetually stupid. Each time she
dated a self-centered man she got a little
more jaded and a little more frustrated, until
she was now convinced that she was simply
dating to prove her entire philosophy on men
hadn’t been wrong. She was trying to find the
one shiny, perfect-to-the-core apple among
all those rotten, flea-bitten ones, but so far
no such luck. When you kept plucking from
the same tree, you were going to get the
same bitter bite.
Nathan was no exception. As he smiled at
her she marveled at how truly beautifully
God had molded his features, a musical
Adonis with a sexy voice. He could stick his
hands down the pants of literally any woman
in the room, and they would let him, because
he was going to be a star and he played the
guitar. He banked on that. But she was either
too old or too over it. Nothing about his
sloppy gropings by the bar did anything more
than embarrass her.
“That’s enough now,” she told him dryly.
“Let’s keep it off the streets.”
“Aw, you’re no fun,” he said, giving her a
grin and a very wet kiss. He lifted his beer
bottle to his lips. “I bet I could make you
come right here in front of all these people.”
Elle lifted a brow. She was absolutely sure
that would never happen. She didn’t have it
in her. If anything, these days she felt like a
sexual Sahara Desert. Dry as a bone. Nothing
—or rather, no one—seemed to be able to
turn her on. Nathan was not a special
snowflake. She wasn’t going to come on
command for him, despite what his
enormous ego told him. “You try it, and I’ll
knock your teeth into your skull,” she said.
He laughed. “Feisty. I like that about you.”
Of course he did. They all did. Because
they thought feisty meant fun in bed. Which
she liked to think she was. But after the
sheets cooled, feisty no longer was
compatible with their selfishness, and they
got annoyed. They got angry. They got pissed.
Which she returned in kind. Then bam.
Another pointless, short-lived relationship.
She told herself recognizing the pattern was
the first step to change. Step two was not
dating these tools anymore.
“You know what I like about you, since
we’re being brutally honest?” she asked.
His eyes narrowed. “We’re being brutally
honest?”
He had the look of a shrewd man. No one
gained success in the music business in
Nashville without doing a little scratching
and a lot of clawing. She shouldn’t go here
with him. She should just say she had a
headache and have him drop her off at home.
Leave it alone. But after years doing hair and
makeup for divas and dudes with attitudes,
and dating every egomaniac she could find,
she was fresh out of patience. The room was
stuffy and crowded, the music too loud, her
drink too sour. Nathan had already remarked
that she seemed “PMS-y” to him, and she
was mad at herself for agreeing to the
situation in the first place.
So she nodded. “Yep. I like your hair,
Nathan. That is pretty much it.”
She knew that when you recklessly insult
someone because of your own ennui, you
have to be prepared for the consequences.
Unfortunately, she wasn’t ready when he hit
her with some truths of his own.
Nathan stood up straight and slapped his
beer bottle down on the counter. That
gorgeous long hair her hairdresser hands
coveted slid into his eyes and he tossed it
back. “You know what I like about you? Your
tits and the fact that your sister is Jolene
Hart. Otherwise, nothing. You are sarcastic
and bitchy and an asexual prude who can’t
kiss.”
Well, fair was fair. She had started it. But
she had to admit to being a little stunned.
The man did not hold back, so even while
she had the shocking and unexpected feeling
that she might actually cry, she couldn’t say
she hadn’t brought it on herself. She
carefully set her own drink down and
concentrated on breathing in and out
through her nose, keeping her mouth closed
so she wouldn’t let a few swear words fly out
at him.
Then she picked up her purse and lifted
her chin and gave him a tightlipped smile.
“Bye, Nathan.”
“You’re just going to leave me here? With
blue balls?”
She thought about grabbing him by that
beautiful hair and kissing the stuffing out of
him to prove she could, and to get him even
more turned on before walking out, but that
had the potential to backfire so loud and hot,
she wasn’t willing to take the risk. Besides,
she told herself, she had nothing to prove.
She almost believed it.
“Yes. Elle has left the building.” With that
she stomped and shoved her way to the front
of the bar, threw open the door, and breathed
in the crisp October air.
She thought about calling her brother,
Shane, for a ride, but he had betrayed her by
falling in love with a woman far too sweet for
his cynical self. He seemed happy and Elle
was pleased for him, but at the same time
she was watching her sibling unexpectedly
get everything she had ever wanted. Shane
had never wanted love or marriage, and yet
now he had someone. Elle had always
wanted a man, yet could never seem to find
anyone who stuck. She didn’t know why she
craved a relationship when they always
sucked so hard, or why she seemed to be the
only Hart sibling who wasn’t worthy of
devotion.
So she flagged down a taxi, and felt sorry
for herself. She pulled her long boho sweater
closer around her shoulders and fished her
phone out of her purse. As she climbed into
the cab she gave the driver her address then
texted the one person she could always count
on to make her feel better—Tucker.
You awake?
The press of tears still lingering was
mortifying. She was twenty-nine years old
and she was crying in a cab over a bad date.
Nothing had changed in over a decade.
Nothing.
It was then she realized the worst truth of
all—she was her mother. She had somehow
gradually morphed into the woman who had
dated every loser in Tennessee and
Kentucky. Twice.
Yeah, what’s up?
Can I call you?
Sure.
Thank God. Tucker would talk her off the
ledge. He always did. Her high school
sweetheart, he had been her crisis counselor
ever since her family had left Kentucky for
the bright lights of Nashville when Elle was
seventeen. She hit call on her phone.
“Hello?” His voice sounded sleepy.
She realized it was midnight. “Did I wake
you up?”
“No. I was watching TV in bed.”
“You need to get out more,” she told him,
like she always did. “It’s Friday night.”
“We can’t all be social butterflies like you.
And where are you that you’re calling me?”
“In a cab.” Elle heard the tremble in her
own voice and she was shocked. She never
cried. But she’d been fighting the urge for
ten minutes now. Nathan’s words had cut
deep. What the hell was wrong with her? “I
just walked out on my date. He told me the
most attractive thing about me is my sister
being famous.”
“What?” She could hear shuffling, like
Tucker was sitting up in bed. “That’s damn
rude.”
“It is.” She bit her lip. “Plus he said some
other stuff. Not nice stuff, and I think I just
realized something really horrible.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m my mother!” It was that truth that
had the tears escaping down her cheeks.
“What? No, you’re not. Your mother is
much nicer than you are.”
It was true but it was absolutely the wrong
thing she needed to hear. It felt like he had
pushed all the air out of her lungs and she
started to legitimately cry. To no-holds-
barred weep. “You’re right! I am a bitch.
Nathan was right. I’m bitchy and I’m stupid
because I can’t even blame my poor choice in
men on the fact that I’m naïve. I know
they’re assholes and I date them anyway
because I’m addicted to pretty men.”
Elle saw the cabdriver glance at her in the
rearview mirror with a look of disbelief, but
she didn’t care. She felt like she’d had it. Like
she had reached a breaking point where she
could no longer continue to do what she had
been doing. Only what did that mean?
Celibacy? A life alone? Six cats, and a secret
stash of chocolate bars in her nightstand?
Forget the vibrator. It would be just her and
a heap of empty wrappers.
“That’s not a legitimate addiction,” Tucker
said, sounding calm and unconcerned. “You
can quit at any time.”
“Says you! I don’t know, Tuck, I just don’t
know what I’m supposed to do.”
“About what, honey?”
“My life.” She wasn’t one for dramatics.
Usually she put her head down, she got by
with snark and sarcasm, and she worked
hard. “I’m tired. I’m really, really tired.”
There was a long pause then he said, “Are
you crying?”
She sniffled. “Maybe. What of it?”
Concern crept into his voice. “You don’t
cry. Are you okay?”
“No!” The man wasn’t usually so thick.
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I am
really upset.” She was. She was irrationally
hurt by Nathan’s comments. She knew she
was fluent in sarcasm, but she didn’t think
she was a bitch. “Am I a bitch?”
“No, of course not. You’re starting to freak
me out, honey. You don’t sound like you.”
Elle closed her eyes. Sometimes when
Tucker spoke, his whiskey-smooth voice
rolled over her and took her back to a place
where she understood who she was and a
time when her life was simple. He still had a
country sound and while she’d never wanted
to stay in the small town she’d grown up in,
there had been some great times hanging out
with him—riding in his truck, cranking the
radio, fishing. She wanted to go home for
some inexplicable reason even though there
was nothing for her back there anymore.
Nothing but Tucker. It wasn’t home and
hadn’t been for a dozen years. It was just the
place she’d grown up.
Which made her feel even worse. She
didn’t have anything to escape to, anywhere
to go back to. Just Tucker, and she didn’t
“have” him. He was simply her friend.
When she didn’t answer him, he pressed.
“What did he do? Did the bastard actually
call you a bitch? Because I’ll rearrange his
face.”
She scoffed. “You right now said my
mother is nicer than me. Why would you
defend me?” She had to admit, right or not, it
bothered her he had said that.
“Oh, stop. You know I was just giving you
shit. And you know I’d be there in a
heartbeat if someone really hurt you.”
The driver pulled up in front of her
apartment building. She prided herself on
not being emotionally needy. Which was sort
of the ultimate bullshit lie she told herself.
Otherwise she wouldn’t be dating at all. She
would wait for a perfect man to fall into her
lap. It hit her all at once that she was not
some badass independent woman. She was
well and truly her mother and that was not
okay with her.
“He really hurt me,” she said, her voice
breaking. It wasn’t actually about Nathan the
grabby musician. It was about everything.
Life. Love. Why she was still spinning her
wheels. She wanted Tucker to stay on the
phone with her. No, she needed Tucker.
“Where are you, sweetheart?”
“I’m going into my apartment now.”
“Lock the door behind you.”
That made her laugh softly. “Okay.” He
sometimes acted like she was seven. It was
the cop in him though, he couldn’t help
himself.
“I’m serious. I want to hear the click.”
“I live in a safe neighborhood.” Elle waved
to the cabdriver after paying him and
climbed out. She didn’t have a huge
apartment but it was in a desirable complex,
with amenities like a gym she never used
and a pool she would occasionally lie by but
never swam in. Her bathroom and kitchen
were updated with modern finishes and she
had a gas fireplace. She had been living there
for three years and had never once felt in
danger or unnerved by any of her neighbors.
“That’s when you get lulled into a false
sense of safety. There are crazies
everywhere.”
Elle fished her keys out of her bag. “Where
is the safest place to live?”
“With me.”
She scoffed as she opened the door to the
central hallway. “That’s your answer to
everything. I’m in the building.”
“Make sure the door closes behind you.”
She gave it a cursory glance. That door
weighed a million pounds. It was basically
her only workout, yanking that heavy-ass
thing open. It always closed all the way on its
own. On the second floor, she entered her
place.
Flicking on a light, she sighed as she stood
in the living room of her quiet apartment.
“I’m in.”
“I didn’t hear the dead bolt.”
“Hold on, I’m going to FaceTime you and
show you. I’ll call you right back.” It was the
only way to convince him.
She hung up and called him back. His face
appeared on her screen, his hair sticking up,
his chest bare. He was in bed. Tucker
scratched his beard and frowned.
“Damn, you really have been crying.”
Elle caught a glimpse of herself in the little
box. Her mascara was running down her
cheeks and her foundation was splotchy.
Nice and sexy. “I ugly cry, what can I say?”
she asked dryly. “Now watch me lock this
door.” She turned the dead bolt. “Happy?”
Tuck gave a look that she couldn’t figure
out. A look that seemed worried, intense.
Was that pity? She thought maybe it was.
Fresh tears slid down her cheeks without
warning and she was mortified. She opened
her eyes wide, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
“Okay, thanks for talking to me, I gotta go.”
“Elle…”
“Bye. Have a good night, Tuck. Mwah.” It
was too late. She was already crying again in
earnest before she could hit the end button.
“Shit,” she whispered to herself.
Tucker tried to call her back but she
ignored it. She texted him so he wouldn’t
worry but she didn’t want him to see her like
this, sobbing. Over what? A guy? Being
insulted? She was tougher than that. Wasn’t
she?
I’m fine.
Don’t lie to me.
Go back to sleep. I’m sorry I woke you up.
She had. She knew she had, which made
her feel even worse. He was always there for
her and she repaid him by ripping him out of
sleep when he most likely had to work the
next day. She was selfish. She was a bitch,
Nathan was right.
Her bedroom felt too lonely when she
walked in there to kick off her shoes, so she
retreated to the living room to curl up on the
couch with an afghan her mother had made
her. Maybe she just needed a good, old-
fashioned cry and she would wake up the
next day feeling better.
For the first time since she was seventeen,
Elle cried herself to sleep. That time it had
been because she was being forced to move
and leave Tucker behind. This time it was
because in all the years since, she’d never
found an adult love worthy of crying over.
A knock on her door and her phone
buzzing simultaneously ripped her out of a
restless sleep and she jerked up, arms
flailing. “What the hell?” she murmured,
pushing her long hair off her face. Her heart
was racing and her phone lit up in the dark
room.
A text from Tucker.
I’m here open the door.
That had her staring at the screen,
thoroughly confused. The knock at her door
came again. Wait. Was Tucker here? Outside
her apartment? That was nuts. He lived four
hours away from her. Shoving the blanket off
of her legs, she grabbed her phone and
shuffled to the door. Looking through the
peephole confirmed it. Tucker was standing
in her hallway in jeans and a sweatshirt,
hand poised to knock again.
She yanked open the door. “What are you
doing here?” Shock turned to worry. “Did
someone die?”
He frowned. “No. Of course not. Did you
check the peephole before you opened the
door?”
“Of course I did,” she said impatiently. “No
one died?”
“No one died.”
Worry turned to pleasure. “Well then,
aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, Jason
Michael Tucker.” Elle opened her arms. “I
sure could use a hug right now.”
—
Tucker ran his eyes over Elle, reassuring
himself she was not in any way physically
harmed. She looked tired, with dark circles
under her eyes. Her dark hair was the
longest it had been in a while, cascading
down over her breasts, like she’d stopped
bothering to trim it. There was makeup
smeared all over her face. She looked like a
raccoon on a three-day bender. But she was
still gorgeous. He’d always thought she had a
rare beauty, with her high cheekbones and
fair skin. He had also long suspected she
wasn’t actually her father’s daughter, since
she looked nothing like her siblings or either
of her parents, but maybe it was just the
mystery of genetics. Most likely her mother
would have been far too afraid of Elle’s cruel
father to cheat on the bastard.
Elle was wearing tight jeans, a low-cut top,
and a very long sweater that confused him. It
was part blanket, part sweater, part
draperies. She had multiple necklaces on,
and as usual her wrists jangled with a stack
of bracelets. Somewhere in the back of his
mind, he had to acknowledge that it bothered
him that she’d put on those tight jeans for a
man, but for the time being he ignored that
feeling. Jealousy over the men she bestowed
her time and attention on wasn’t anything
new for him.
When she asked for a hug he stepped
forward and took her into his arms, relieved.
He had been terrified that something serious
was wrong. Elle never cried. He’d seen her
tumble out of a tree and break her arm and
never shed a tear. In high school a burning
log had fallen off their campfire and smacked
her in the leg, causing second-degree burns.
While she had teared up, none had actually
fallen from her eyes. She had willed the tears
away. To hear her sobbing over what didn’t
sound like anything more than a shitty date
had scared the fucking hell out of him. It had
been enough to make him jump into his
truck and drive south to see for himself that
she was okay.
She was thin and he gathered her up in a
firm hug, kissing the side of her head in an
unusual display of affection. He couldn’t
resist. “You scared me half to death,” he told
her, irritated. “What the hell is going on?”
Tucker was used to her random phone
calls and texts about bad dates and lousy
employers, but this had been different.
Usually she bitched, she vented, she laughed.
She never cried. It had nearly killed him to
hear that. She hadn’t sounded like herself
and he wanted some answers.
“Well, come on in before you start grilling
me,” she said, taking his hand and tugging
him into her apartment.
He liked the feel of her hand in his
altogether too much and was disappointed
when she immediately let it go. “I’m going to
lock the door behind us,” she said with a
sparkle in her eye.
“I don’t need you to now that I’m here,” he
said, and he meant it. “I have my gun on
me.”
“You know how I feel about that.”
“And you know I don’t care how you feel
about that.” He didn’t. He wasn’t budging on
carrying concealed when he ...