Read Crossing The Line (A Taboo Love series Book 3) Online
Authors: M.D. Saperstein,Andria Large
Crossing The Line (A Taboo Love series Book 3)
Crossing the Line
a Taboo Love series (book #3)
By:
M.D. Saperstein
and
Andria Large
Copyright
© 2014 by Philly Coconuts, LLC
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Except for the original material written by the author(s), all songs, song titles, and lyrics mentioned in this novel are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.
All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, scanned, distributed, or used in any manner whatsoever, via the Internet, electronic, or print, without the express written permission of the authors, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For more information, or information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the authors:
[email protected]
OR
M.D Saperstein at:
https://www.facebook.com/MdSapersteinAuthor
OR
Andria Large at:
https://www.facebook.com/AndriaLargeAuthor
OR
Our joint page at:
https://www.facebook.com/AuthorsSapersteinLarge
Edited by: Megan Hershenson
Cover Design by: Andria Large
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, September 2014
ISBN: 978-1502342416
Parker Hamilton - movie star! That's what the world knows about me. Oscar winner, prominent bloodline, playboy. But there is so much more to me. My friends are my real family, and they are what matters most. But I’d be lying if I said that I’m not concerned about my reputation. Everyone who lives in the spotlight is.
Listen, I can play any role - drama, comedy, romance. You name it. I can act my ass off, and I have the proof on a shelf in my office. But when my agent calls me into his office to offer me the role of a lifetime, I am hesitant. Not only would I have to act opposite Chance Steele, the most egotistical schmuck I know, but we would also have to pretend to be intimate. Really intimate. As in gay lovers.
Now, don’t get me wrong; I am as open-minded as they come. People can love whom they want, screw whom they want, even marry whom they want. But when you ask me to make out with a dude, pretend to roll around in a bed with him, well, that’s where I draw the line.
Maybe.
Sometimes lines are blurry. And sometimes lines are just meant to be crossed.
Crossing the Line
is book 3 of the Taboo Love series and picks up where
Unmasking Charlotte
left off. As with
Hey There, Delilah
and
Unmasking Charlotte
, it is a standalone - so don’t worry if you haven’t read them yet - with a HEA. That means no cliffhanger! Oh, and expect to see some of your favorite characters.
Contains graphic m/m scenes. Not intended for readers under 18.
Parker
Money doesn't buy happiness. New money, maybe. There’s all that excitement about winning the lottery or starting a successful business. But not old money. Nope, no way. With old money comes obligations and responsibilities. You won’t find happiness there. Well, at least not “real” happiness. Everything is fake and superficial. Everything except the Prada handbags, Gucci shoes, and over the top jewelry – for the men and the women. It’s a world filled with fake smiles and flimsy handshakes. Faces lifted so tightly, you can’t figure out which generation you are speaking to – grandmother or granddaughter. You have to watch your back because the person kissing your ass today will be the one stabbing you in the back tomorrow. You have to wear the perfect clothes, don the perfect smile, inherit the perfect pedigree, and drive the perfect car. Your house and wallet must be big, and your…well, nothing should be small. Bigger is always better, including your ego. You know everything and have been everywhere, and everyone else is jealous.
I should know. I grew up in old money. Yep, that’s right. I’m a Hamilton. Yes, one of
those
Hamiltons - a Hampton Hamilton. Wait! Shit. Was… was a Hampton Hamilton. Nowadays, I am Parker Hamilton – movie star! Earning my own living, in spite of my name, not because of it. And the best part? It pisses my father the fuck off.
Now, I am not saying that being born into that kind of wealth is the worst thing in the word. I never really wanted for anything, except maybe the love and acceptance of my parents. But that’s not really what I was there for. My older brother and I were born to continue the Hamilton name. To be the sole heirs of the largest oil magnate on the east coast. Crude oil. Ironic, isn’t it? That’s what my family’s lineage is built on. Something crude. Doesn’t get much more apropos than that.
Fortunately, I have an older brother, but I don’t have much of a relationship with him. He is seven years older than I am and spends most of his time out on the rigs. Inspecting, supervising, doling out orders, and just being an overall dickhead. He is the epitome of old money. Miserable bastard that he is. I don’t think he would know what fun was if it bit him on the ass. He actually found a wife to put up with his bullshit, but that’s probably just because she is just as miserable. I would kill myself if I had to wake up every day to her. So they are pretty much perfect for one another.
I know what you’re thinking. Why did I say fortunately if I just ripped him and his wife apart? Simple. My father’s name is Archibald Alistair Hamilton IV. Get where I am going? Are you laughing, too? So, my older brother – Archibald Alistair Hamilton V – is the lucky first son, and has the privilege of carrying on the family tradition of being named after the long line of Hamilton descendants. It suits him, though, pretentious asshole. Since my mother, Melina Parker, lost that battle, I was lucky enough to be the winner of the only battle that she ever did win. That is how I became Parker Hamilton, and I actually really like it. It screams Hollywood, doesn’t it?
My childhood started out like every other kid on my block, raised by a nanny until I was old enough to hit on her. I think my parents realized that I was nothing like my brother early on. He was a straight laced, brown nosing, kiss ass. Kind of like he is now. I didn’t like to follow the rules. Not
their
rules necessarily, I am talking about
the
rules. The ones set up by this upper echelon of not so perfect, perfect people. The kind of rules that say you can’t put your elbows on the table, greet everyone with a smile and a handshake, and never ever use inappropriate language. Fuck that. They had my brother, Archie, in their pocket for that nonsense. I was the rebellious one. No, I am not talking about drugs, sex, and rock & roll. Okay, maybe two of the three. I am talking about being me – smile when happy, pout when I’m not. I am talking about telling offensive jokes and loving the reaction I got from those stiffs. I am talking about hitting on the nanny and not worrying about looking bad or inappropriate or however else they labelled me. I wasn’t embarrassed to be me. Wish I could say the same for my parents.
By the time I hit middle school, they were ready to ship me off to boarding school, as they did with Archie. But I threatened to run away or made sure to get kicked out. Knowing how that would make them look to their “friends,” they opted to send me to a private Catholic school, nice Irish boy that I am. The nuns loved me. Until I started hitting on them, too. But, ultimately, I respected them too much and appreciated the fact that they showed me respect for the first time in my life, so I straightened my own ass out. I also knew that my father was expecting me to join the family business once I was done with schooling. Another thing that was already predetermined for me. So I focused on my academics and did all that I could to try to make my parents proud. And I did, but not for long.
I survived Catholic school by surrounding myself with good friends, and keeping my nose in the books. That’s not to say that I didn’t have fun. Weekends were the perfect time to blow off steam, and I made sure to be the life of the party. Finding the ladies was never a problem for me, either. In fact, they seemed to flock to me whenever I entered the room. Fawning all over me like a celebrity. Kind of ironic, isn’t it? Anyway, between my movie star looks and penchant for being the center of attention, fun followed me wherever I went. And although I never wanted a white collar job or be a nine to fiver, Archibald had other ideas for me, so I made sure to keep my grades up and my ass out of trouble. Next stop on my predetermined – not by me - life plan? Law school.
Law school was, well, law school. Just like everyone says, it’s the worst best three years of my educational life. It’s exactly as it’s portrayed in the movies. They knock you down, only to lift you back up. It’s a process, and if you don’t have thick skin or the heart for it, you’re never going to make it to graduation day. Look left, look right, only one of you are going to survive. And If you do, only a small percentage will actually be practicing law in a few years. That was the day I met Nick and Calvin. And imagine that…only one of us three are practicing attorneys. Calvin quit school and I quit the law. But I did as I was expected and graduated. Maybe not with honors like good ole Nick, but I walked nonetheless. A feat that earned me brownie points in the Hamilton household. Add in passing the Bar, and hot damn I was the perfect son. For about a year. That’s how long it took me to quit practicing law.
Chance
Anyone who says that money can’t buy happiness is a fucking liar. Either that or they were born with a silver spoon in their mouth and have no concept of what’s it’s like to go without. And I don’t care if you’re talking about old money, new money, found money, or blue money. Money is money and now I sound like fucking Dr. Seuss. Listen, if you have money, you have money. Don’t act like it’s a curse or it’s an impairment. And if you have money, nobody needs to know about it. You don’t need to flaunt it, wave it around, or rub it in. Those who don’t have, know who does have. Do I sound bitter? Yes. Jealous? Not so much. But we’re not talking about me…yet. My story isn’t unique. It’s not exciting. I lived a shit poor life and now I don’t. You don’t need to know how much is in my bank account. I don’t need to drive a hundred thousand dollar car to show you the size of my junk. I am who I am. How did I become me? Here’s my story. But don’t cry for me Argentina.
Shit, I need to stay away from Broadway!
My mother is a whore. No, really, check this out. I don’t know much of this firsthand, but as far as I know, my father didn’t know she was even pregnant. He was her trick, her mark, her John. Unable to take care of me, and unwilling to tell her parents that she got knocked up, at only a few days old, she tracked down my father and terminated her parental rights. I then became my father’s problem. I lived with him until I could talk; that’s when I told any one that would listen that he drinks smelly brown liquid then falls asleep for days. I would go days without eating… so I’ve been told. With no legal mother (she terminated her rights), a drunk for a father, and no other blood relatives willing to claim me, I became a ward of the state. I haven’t seen or heard from either one of them since. Clearly, they have no idea who I am, or they’d probably be knocking down my door for money. Isn’t that when all of the greedy bastards come out of the woodwork? When they can smell a windfall. So basically, except for the names of random dirt bags on my birth certificate, I have no parents. Come from a stellar lineage, don’t I? If the public only knew…
Let’s get this over with. I’ve never loved, and have never been loved. I lived in different foster homes and group homes for a decade or so, finally running away and not turning back one Christmas Eve. I never stayed in one home long enough to get attached to anyone. But that doesn’t matter because even if I tried, I would have failed. I was only a paycheck to the foster parents. It was in my last foster home that I learned that I was truly on my own.
He was the biological son of the foster parents I last lived with. I don’t know how old he was at the time, but I know he went to the local community college during the day. At night, he was my problem. Sneaking into my room, holding a hand over my mouth, and telling me I had to earn my keep. I knew what he was doing to me was wrong. I knew better. I also knew that nobody would believe me over him. One night after he left me crying and in agony because I tried fighting against him, I knew I only had one option. I waited until my state money came in and stole it from the mail. Christmas Eve I grabbed some of the gifts from under the tree that I knew I could sell on the streets, then took off and didn’t look back. I’ve been on my own ever since.
Moving on. With the exception of one person that ran the homeless shelter for men that I was living in, I’ve never trusted anyone or counted on anyone for anything. I’ve never been in a relationship with a woman beyond casual flings and one night stands, I’ve never been intimate with another man since, and I’ve never once even considered loving anyone or anything. And so with no family, pets, or future plans, I did the only logical thing – I joined the Army.