Use Me – Caldwell Brothers Read Online Chelsea Camaron

Categories Genre: Contemporary, Romance, Sports Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76467 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)

Read Online Books/Novels:

Use Me - Caldwell Brothers

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Chelsea Camaron

Book Information:

He’s not just a piece of meat—he’s got a story to tell. And she’s got all night to listen. In this tantalizing romance, MJ Fields proves that when life knocks you down, you get up swinging.
They call him “Kid.” At seventeen, he killed a man with his bare hands. Showing no remorse, he spent seven years in Baraga Correctional Facility. Now, at twenty-four, Kid has stepped back into the world with no family, no job, and nowhere to go. Luck has never been on his side. But love just might be. . . .
Tatum always wanted to write the kind of gritty, important books that are supposed to make a difference in the real world. But to make ends meet, she’s considering a new genre: romance. She knows she needs a muse, like the half-naked hunks on all of those trashy covers. Tatum just has no idea where to find one—until she catches the eye of a hard-bodied bad boy who’s so sexy it’s almost scary.
Kid is shocked when cute, squeaky-clean Tatum approaches him with a very forward proposition. Will Kid let a woman use him, or will he fight the desire he feels?
Includes an excerpt from another Loveswept title.
Books by Author:

Chelsea Camaron

Chapter One

Legacy Gym

Present day

I look around the gym. The walls are black and mirrored, the floor is black cement covered in red mats. The back wall, where all our daily equipment is stored, is covered floor to ceiling in black lockers. Hand wraps, gloves, medicine balls, headgear, nut cups, first-aid equipment, and clothing that have our logo on them.

Our logo. I am a part of something. There was a time in the not so distant past when I wasn’t sure I would ever be anything. There are still days I couldn’t give a shit less if I do.

To the left are sparring mats and a few pieces of cardio equipment. To the right are free weights, a few high-end weight training machines, five heavy bags, seven speed bags, and five timing bags. In the middle is where I prefer to spend my time and energy. The cage.

I look at the large clock hanging above the doorway to our office. Nine-thirty at night. That means I have been here for thirteen and a half hours.

Eight hours would send a normal man my age running home to his family, to a hot meal, or to a bar where he could have a drink and relax with his friends. I am not a normal man.

Normal men don’t have blood on their hands, and if they do, they have it with remorse in their hearts, or the blood came from fighting a greater cause. The blood on my hands came from an anger that took control, from the rage within me, a rage that still controls me.

“Put one foot in front of the other. Stand tall and proud. Make the decision that you are both of those things and never let them think any differently. You are a good man, a good kid. Your past doesn’t define you; your present and future do.” Shaw, my father’s oldest and closest friend, words ring inside my head as I look at the picture of him, Jagger, and I hanging on the wall, illuminated by bright white up-lighting.

If only putting one foot in front of the other wasn’t so hard. The weight of the world is heavy on my neck, making holding my head high almost impossible.

Shaw believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. Now Shaw is gone.

After killing the lights and locking the doors, I let out a breath and walk toward the door in the back left-hand corner of the gym that leads to my apartment upstairs.

I stand in the apartment above Legacy, a gym that Jagger Caldwell and I inherited. A gym that trains people like me. It was willed to us when Shaw’s fight with cancer ended.

I suppose he did it to make sure his promise to his best friend, my father, was kept. He made sure I had something, an income, a place to live—a piece of something tangible while I served out my parole sentence for a crime I committed eight years ago.

Honestly, it feels more like a curse, a cage, a confined space, than a new beginning.

My body aches. It’s bruised and sore, all feelings I not only accept, but embrace. The harder I push myself, the more men I get in the cage with to train, the more hits I take, the closer I get to controlling the fury that simmers just beneath a boiling point inside my soul.

I walk to the bathroom and stand in front of the distressed mirror above the small sink that is rust-stained from the constant drip of a faucet that I keep telling myself I will fix, but I have no intention or desire to do so.

I strip off my sweat-drenched clothes and turn toward the shower to start the water. It takes a good five minutes for it to heat enough for my liking, and while I wait, I brush my teeth and open the cabinet.

I stare at the last bottle of pain meds prescribed to Shaw. I pocketed them after he died when the rage became worse. It is a battle of wills to tame the beast inside me. Waking up and looking in the mirror, knowing what I did and why I did it.

I twist off the childproof cap and count as I dump the pills out into my hand. Twelve. I have twelve nights left to sleep, and then the nightmares will ensue. I make a mental note to space the pills out to every third day. I can do without sleep for that long, no more.

I let them fall one by one back into the bottle, except one, as I feel my exhausted body become tense again. Anxiety is starting to creep in, so I take the last pill in my hand, toss it in my mouth, and swallow it down.

Before the pill’s effects kick in, I get in the small shower and bend so the water falls over my head instead of hitting the middle of my shoulders. When the water starts to run cold and I feel a bit drowsy, I step out, towel my hair lightly, and then drop it to the floor, allowing my body to air dry. Then I look up at my reflection and see a man who looks much older than his twenty-five years.