LOVING DARK MEN Read online

  Contents

  LOVING DARK MEN

  DESCRIPTION

  CHAPTER ONE – NOVA

  CHAPTER TWO - LOCKE

  CHAPTER THREE – NOVA

  CHAPTER FOUR – LOCKE

  CHAPTER FIVE – NOVA

  CHAPTER SIX – LOCKE

  CHAPTER SEVEN - NOVA

  CHAPTER EIGHT - LOCKE

  CHAPTER NINE – NOVA

  CHAPTER TEN – LOCKE

  CHAPTER ELEVEN – NOVA

  CHAPTER TWELVE – LOCKE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN – NOVA

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN – LOCKE

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN - NOVA

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN – LOCKE

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN – NOVA

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN – LOCKE

  CHAPTER NINETEEN – NOVA

  CHAPTER TWENTY – LOCKE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - NOVA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - LOCKE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - NOVA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR – LOCKE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE – NOVA

  EPILOGUE - NOVA

  END OF BOOK SHIT

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  LOVING DARK MEN

  Edited by RJ Locksley

  Cover Design by JA Huss

  Cover Photo: Wander Aguiar

  Copyright © 2022 by JA Huss

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-978-1-950232-94-9

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  DESCRIPTION

  A man lures a woman into the woods.

  Another ruins the life of his best friend.

  And yet another strings them along like puppets.

  Dark men.

  They are intriguing, and charming, and powerful.

  They are changing the world.

  They are changing themselves.

  They are playing with lust, and love, and fear, and loathing.

  Addicted to each other, to their secret, to the seduction, to the sex.

  It’s a crash in the making.

  And yes, it’s on purpose.

  These men are dark.

  And this is the messy story of how Nova Ryan loves them.

  Loving Dark Men is a seductive romantic thriller that will have you turning pages well past your bedtime. A standalone book by New York Times bestselling author, JA Huss.

  CHAPTER ONE – NOVA

  I pace the floor behind the cash register of my little shop. Counting steps, and breaths—anything I can to make the time go by. I hate waiting. That’s my new thing. It used to be surprises but I gave up on hating surprises.

  There is no way to circumvent the surprises.

  The earring in my hand is rough with tiny lavender diamonds mounted on a fringe of delicate platinum strands. It was the only thing I could think of. The only link back to them.

  More accurately, the only way to get them back.

  Mercer, Olsen, and Locke.

  My dark men.

  But the woman I’m expecting knows a thing or two about dark men, so I’ve planned for a fight.

  She will not win.

  But even as I say these words in my head, there is a part of me that wishes it was different. That wishes I could just get over them. Just leave them behind for good.

  Because even that first day, I knew.

  They were going to ruin me.

  Mercer, Olsen, and most of all Locke. Because Locke was the first one who completely captured me that morning. It’s like he put a spell on me. And even after I left, years ago now, it has never quite worn off.

  I still love, and long for, Locke.

  But he’s trapped. Just like I was. And there is only one way to get him back.

  The Institute is a ninety-two-acre campus that encompasses the entire area of Private Island #1, located in Meredith Bay, New Hampshire. The fact that the island’s name is quite literally ‘Private’ should pretty much sum up what the Institute is and stands for.

  Privacy.

  Except not really privacy. Not like, ‘I’d like my privacy,’ or ‘Please keep my data private,’ or even ‘Discretion is advised.’ The Institute and privacy are attached at the crimes.

  They need privacy. Or else they would all find themselves in prison.

  I was recruited by Mercer, first name Silas. But we didn’t go by given names on the island. Only surnames. This kind of made sense at first. I got it. The Institute is populated with old families and surnames have meaning.

  So I understood. The moment that Mercer told me that I would no longer be Nova, I would be Ryan, it kinda made sense.

  “Come on now. Nova?” He laughed at my name. “It’s so obnoxious and trendy. You might as well be called Starchild. Your name is now Ryan—because good Lord, Ryanzski, no one wants to go around spitting out those syllables all day long. It’s not even a real name.”

  Names on the island meant something. That was the point. So if I wanted to fit in, my name needed to mean something too. You don’t need to know anything about my family to get the bullet points right. It’s all spelled out for you with the ‘z’ and the ‘ski.’

  I didn’t mind, though.

  I didn’t mind anything about them back then. It was all so exciting, and new, and… yeah. Special. I was now special. Because the Institute had chosen me, of all the new PhD graduates from all the best schools. Their choice was me.

  So whatever. If my new name was now Ryan, so be it. I never liked being a Ryanzski anyway. Mercer was right. He’s still right, even to this day—about this one thing, anyway.

  Nova is obnoxious enough. Ryanzski even more so. But Ryan? She’s cute, and smart, and tiny. A little whirlwind. A wee bit of fun, as Olsen used to say.

  Everyone loves Ryan.

  In one day, I went from nobody to somebody.

  And it was all because of them.

  FIVE YEARS AGO

  THE INSTITUTE

  June third. A Tuesday.

  Nothing special about this day as far as I can tell. But this start date comes with all kinds of questions. I literally just defended my dissertation two weeks ago and now here I am. On a random Tuesday. Starting something new.

  So why this day?

  Why not start on the first?

  Or a Monday?

  It’s a mystery.

  And I find this intriguing because who doesn’t love a good mystery?

  I’m standing in the middle of the campus. There is a square mapped out in gray slate stepping stones, but depending on your perspective, it could be a diamond. From my perspective—from everyone’s perspective entering the main gates of the campus, actually—it is a diamond. But they call it the Square.

  Despite the fact that there are only three hundred and one academics here, the Square is super-busy. I can count fifty or sixty of that total just people-watching at nine twenty-two AM.

  I would like to stay and just soak it all up—enjoy the warm air, and the sunshine, and give myself plenty of time to acclimate to this big change in my life—but I have places to go and people to see.

  Silas Mercer isn’t just my recruiter, he is also my guide. He compared this position to a residential advisor in undergrad. Or a primary investigator in grad school. Someone who watches over you, someone you go to with problems, and, obviously, someone who guides you.

  We have a meeting at ten. But I was looking at the campus map in my welcome packet last night, and his office location wasn’t clear. There was a circle on a random corner of a building called Trapp.

  I’m careful. I’m a planner. I like things orderly. I don’t like surprises of any kin
d. So in order to avoid a possible surprise scenario on my first day, I arrive early so I can check things out.

  There’s a coffee cart to the left of the Square, so I head that way as I continue my people-watching. Pretty much everyone is my age. Late twenties, early thirties. This is a place of young people, Mercer explained during my recruitment meeting. Of course, most schools are. But the Institute isn’t a school. It’s a research center dedicated to postdocs. Everyone has a PhD. It’s a place of big ideas, and interesting projects, and Mercer was recruiting me to help with his.

  He didn’t really explain the project. Said I’d have to sign a non-disclosure agreement before he could do that. But he did explain that it was in my wheelhouse. My wheelhouse being behavioral and systems neuroscience, which is a fancy way of saying I map neural networks throughout the body and apply that data to external behaviors.

  Despite the fact that I have spent the last twenty-two years of my life preparing for the day I defended my dissertation, I am not prepared to actually be a behavioral and systems neuroscientist.

  I knew that. Months and months ago, actually.

  So the offer was kind of a relief. I would not have to get my own lab and start my own projects. I could leech a little. Get my feet wet with Mercer and the Institute. And then, after the year was up, I would be ready to move on, or I could stay at the Institute and begin my own project and process of recruitment.

  I really like this plan.

  It’s the softest of landings after an entire lifetime of the stress that comes with the desire to pull oneself up by one’s bootstraps and leave one’s mark on the world.

  It was a sigh of relief and a well-deserved respite.

  There is no downside to the Institute.

  I get my coffee, check my watch, and realize I still have a good thirty minutes before my meeting. I decide to find the office first. That way I will know where it is and the stress of that unknown variable can be put aside and I can spend the remaining time wandering around the Square and taking it all in.

  I look at my map, compare it to the buildings in front of me, and find the one called Trapp. I head that way and stop at the plaque in front to soak up the history. This is a quirk of mine. I love to soak up the local history. This building was donated by some rich guy—called, you guessed it, Trapp—and it was built in nineteen-nineteen. Which is not the best time in history for a building such as this to be built, to be honest. All kinds of things were happening in the world at that time. Most of them atrocious.

  The rest of the little paragraph is a bunch of blah, blah, blah, so I look up at the building and then climb the stairs that lead to a row of five sets of double doors at the back of an open vestibule. This is quite the building.

  I go inside, head to my right—because that’s where the little circle is on my map—and find a hallway of doors with no numbers, or letters, or nameplates on them. No designation at all. The hallway is only partially lit up. Like every third chandelier is on, while the rest of them are dark. And every door is locked.

  So.

  I spin on my heel and head back out to the main lobby.

  Despite the fact that the Square outside is bustling, and despite the fact that this building is kind of huge and impressive, it appears to be empty.

  My mind rewinds to the words ‘huge’ and ‘impressive’ and I allow myself to feel pride for a moment.

  I work here.

  I will do interesting things here. Maybe even incredible things. If I can only find that office.

  I chuckle, take a sip of coffee, and decide that perhaps my problem is elevation and that little circle on the map meant the office was upstairs. So I go up, enjoying the view of the beautiful interior as I walk. I linger at the top and look down to discover that the design in the mosaic tile floor depicts a crude brain.

  A chuckle bursts forth.

  It’s fitting, though. For me at least. And the project, I decide.

  If it’s in my wheelhouse, then it’s neuroscience, and this floor makes sense.

  I turn back to my task and search for the office. But all the doors that lead to hallways up here are locked.

  What the hell?

  Someone has to work in this building.

  So I go down, go outside, stand on the front vestibule and look at the map. Then I squint up at the building. Look back down at the map. Look back up at the building…

  Why is this so complicated? Finding the office should not be complicated.

  I spot a man sitting on the concrete railing on the far end of the vestibule. He’s in the shade. Under the protection of a massive maple tree. He’s about my age—very handsome. Shirtless, though. Which throws me for a moment, especially since his chest is very nice. But then I see he’s wearing sweat shorts and there’s a t-shirt thrown casually over the railing next to him.

  Perhaps he was jogging.

  This is when I realize he’s caught me staring at him. Some men might smirk at this, thinking I was checking him out, which I might’ve been, but it was innocent. I’m just trying to piece him together.

  But he doesn’t smirk. His expression doesn’t change at all. And we stare at each other like that for several moments before he breaks the spell and reaches out with a hand.

  A flat, open palm.

  Which is weird—until it isn’t.

  I walk over to him and hand him the map.

  He takes it without a single word, eyeballs it for one second, then hands it back and points behind him.

  I lean to the side, look over the railing, and discover a garden-level door with a crown of ivy climbing over it.

  Elevation. It not only applies to up, but also down. “Oh.” I feel foolish. “Thank you.”

  He says nothing. Just stares at me. And I don’t know what to do here, so I smile, turn away, walk down the stairs and around the corner of the railing, then down another level of stairs to the office that has a shingle outside proclaiming this to be the place of business of one Silas Mercer.

  I don’t like to feel foolish, so this feeling lingers as I step up to the deep green lacquered door. I pause here to breathe. It’s dumb to let this tiny mistake get to me, but I can’t help it. I just hate being surprised. I should’ve looked harder for the office. I should’ve assumed there was a garden level. I should not have let a half-dressed man reveal this door to me like it was a secret.

  One more breath and then I tip my head up, open the door, and step inside.

  It’s overly warm. Clearly no AC. But there’s a fan oscillating on the corner of a messy wooden desk. It’s an old-fashioned fan made of dark gray metal and the arc it travels goes just far enough on each side to rustle the papers on the desk.

  It’s pointed at the door, which means it’s pointed at me, and it feels good. So I let out a breath and look around. It looks every bit the way a garden-level office in a place called the Institute should look. Bookcases filled with aged tomes line the walls. A smattering of small oil paintings depicting long-dead people are propped up on high windowsills. And the wood floors are well-worn and creaky. “Hello?” There’s no one here. But a moment later I hear some banging down a hallway. “Helloooo?” I call louder this time. “Mr. Mercer?”

  The banging pauses and a beat later he calls back. “Have a seat, Ms. Ryanzski. Be right there.”

  There are two chairs in the room—identical, but on either side of the desk. I choose the one closest to me and sit. That’s when a yellow envelope on the desk catches my eye. There is a white label centered at the top with ‘Nova Ryanzski’ printed in black.

  I look over my shoulder at the hallway on instinct, a heartbeat away from snatching that envelope up and looking inside, but I stop myself.

  You don’t do that anymore, Nova.

  Here’s a fun fact about me—my internal monologue has an accent. It’s kinda British, but then again, it might just be snobby. I don’t know why, but it truly is a fun fact.

  “Ah, sorry for the wait.” I’m jolted to attention by the voice o
f Silas Mercer as he enters the room. His accent is also kind of snobby. In fact, it’s very similar to my internal monologue, which made me warm to him immediately.

  He’s out of breath and his starched-white dress shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. He pushes them down his forearms and reaches for cufflinks on the closest bookcase. “The AC is out. As you can tell.” He nods to the ancient fan. “I’ve got a handy side to me, so I was giving it a go. But, unfortunately, the motor has expired in a very final way. I’m sorry. We could go outside if it’s too warm for you in here.”

  “Um…” I hate surprises. Why do I have to make this decision? “No. I’m fine. The heat feels good, actually.”

  “Ah. Right.” He grins at me and I’m reminded of just how handsome my new mentor is. He didn’t shave this morning and there is a dark shadow across his jaw that matches his dark hair. It’s not messy, but it’s not neat, either. Not the way it was slicked back during our first meeting. It’s not straight or curly, but has a nice wave, and it’s just a little bit too long so that wave really shows. It’s fuckin’ hot. He slips his suit coat back on and some of this new hotness turns literal.

  Yeah, he’s a diehard suit guy.

  “You mentioned that.” He must read the confusion on my face because he continues. “Where would you build your dream home? You said Bora Bora. I took that to mean that you like the heat because Bora Bora in the summer is oppressively hot and dream homes are permanent homes, so I assumed you would be there in the summer.”

  “Wow. You got all that from one question?”

  “No.” He grins at me again. “I got all that from one answer.”

  “Right.” I feel that surprise anxiety building back up inside me. Why am I so off my game today? I snap out of it and tap my head. “Forgot where I was for a moment. The mosaic tiles on the first floor of this building depict a brain.”

  He’s still grinning as he flops into the chair opposite me. “People are open books, Ms. Ryanzski. You just need to know how to read their words.”

  Again, I feel foolish. And imposter syndrome is starting to creep in. Maybe I don’t belong here? Maybe I’m not smart enough? Maybe I’m not special at all? Maybe I’m the only one who accepted the offer? I mean, I’m on a private island in the middle of New Hampshire and I don’t even get to know what my part in his project will be until I sign an NDA.