All’s fair in love and print.
New York native Ezra Costa has lost everything to sex addiction. His marriage recently fell apart, his pride is in tatters and he may be on the verge of losing his job at a prestigious London publication. All that stands between him and a return ticket to New York, tail firmly tucked between his legs, are a regimen of group therapy sessions and a self-imposed abstinence streak.
He’s coming up on the one month mark when he meets sexy, sophisticated Logan. Within minutes, their undeniable attraction translates into a rendezvous not far from Ezra’s flat and a rapid descent into old practices.
But there’s more to Logan than meets the eye. Beneath the thin veneer of a genteel Londoner hides an unholy marriage of unchecked power and unbridled passion. Worse, Logan heads up a rival media conglomerate and rumor has it that Ezra’s employers may be considering a merger. Soon their secret liaison imperils more than Ezra’s self-esteem and the consequences of his affair could well cost him everything.
Reader Advisory: This book contains scenes of BDSM and references to self-harm.
General Release Date: 29th August 2014
Two meetings in and Ezra was convinced that no one else felt as uncomfortable as him. He glanced surreptitiously around the circle.
Eyes bright, expressions set to sympathetic, his fellow addicts were sucking each other’s stories up like blossoms turning toward the sun. The wary glances he got when he inadvertently caught their eye were strangely ominous. It was a miracle he hadn’t been pulled aside for a cavity search yet. He’d seen it happen, though not here and not when the message literally penned across the chalkboard nailed to the far wall was ‘accepting & understanding’.
At least his therapist was pleased. He said this showed that Ezra was making progress.
Ambitious estimate or not, here Ezra was—reluctantly returned to the musty room in the bowels of St. Felicity’s, with sweaty palms and backside aching from sitting too long in the plastic fold-out chair. Ventilation was practically non-existent and his claustrophobia had surged to the surface like oil on water. He squirmed in his seat and endeavored to ignore the discomfort.
Addicts weren’t often welcomed with such open arms and, frankly, it was freaking him out. He tried to relax, to unlatch his fingers from the wrinkles in his denim trousers or uncross his legs. It didn’t work. He could barely make himself clap for the tearful ode to a deceased border collie. It must have been touching. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house.
The domed ceiling echoed with the sound of sniveling, ancient brick feeding back ersatz sorrow like a ghost wail. In conjunction with the parish, the organizers had tried to make the basement look welcoming and intimate, but despite the plush carpet and the clever, wall-mounted retro lamps, the cellar still felt dingy and cramped.
When Ezra breathed in, he could scent the wet dirt beneath his feet, the musty fragrance of ancient mold. The whole place smelled dead. He wondered if the rat traps scattered at every corner and slotted under the electric heaters ever caught anything. Most likely they were the product of a bygone era, as out of place as the beaming motivational posters stuck with tape to the walls.
That was when it happened. Louie, whose reedy voice and long hair put Ezra in mind of a young John Lennon despite every effort not to like the guy, turned his bespectacled stare onto him. A thousand spotlights would’ve had the same effect.
“Would anyone else like to share?”
The question hung heavy in the musty, underground air of their cavernous meeting place. It was supposed to be Ezra’s cue. His seatmates were shooting him meaningful glares, bordering on menacing. Louie himself was gazing at him encouragingly from the height of his eight-year sobriety.
This was it—the moment Ezra would break his self-imposed moratorium on speech and say ‘I am an addict’ like he had seen so many others do.
Freida had been clear after the third time he’d shown up with a bloodied lip and a black eye— “Start treatment or start looking for another job.” If the competition ever found out—and they would, their staff were at least as good as any of Ezra’s colleagues—the resulting blow to The Rep could be irreparable. So Ezra had pulled himself up by his bootstraps. He’d found himself a therapist and, after much hemming and hawing, had wound up here. St. Felicity’s in Notting Hill was as far from his East London flat as he could get.
It was a strategic choice, but it would’ve been a lie to pretend the journey was worth sitting in a rickety chair and sipping lukewarm tea out of a plastic cup, simply for the sake of listening to an endless stream of whining. A handful of meetings in and Ezra still couldn’t bring himself to mention his own. He squirmed in his seat, wishing everyone would take the hint. It made him feel worse to let them down than it did to sit here once a week and listen to their private heartaches. Those at least he could do nothing about.
He knew his presence among them was becoming dubious. When he had arrived, he had introduced himself as a writer, without mentioning that he worked for a respectable newspaper. He told himself that it made no difference, that he kept the secret for the sake of retaining some sliver of privacy. The truth was more complicated.
There was a good chance that the circle of people surrounding him would clam up if they knew. Louie might even ask him to leave.
A soft, decidedly female voice interrupted the one-sided staring contest with a noisy cough.
“I’ll share.”
Everyone dutifully glanced her way, including Ezra, who breathed a sigh of relief.
It wasn’t her first time. Ezra had seen her before at St Felicity’s. Her name was Evelyn.
She was a slip of a girl but she had stories to tell that could make a man’s hair stand on end. Once, Ezra had seen her stepping out of a BMW coupe with her head hung low under the wide brim of a hat. He had thought she might have been crying. It wasn’t until Louie had offered her the floor that Evelyn had shown them her bandages with a gleeful, bright smile.
Even petite blondes with big green eyes were susceptible to dangerous compulsions.
A jarring chorus of “Hello, Evelyn” faded to silence, as it always did. This time, Evelyn had something more trivial for them—a dinner party she was supposed to attend with her brother had planted the seeds of discord between the siblings.
“He told me I don’t have to go if I don’t want to, but I know it’s not fair to abandon him like that. I can’t help feel guilty…” She bit her bottom lip.
“How old is your brother?” Ezra blurted out. His spine creaked like an old man’s when he leaned forward to plant his elbows on his knees. He had barely turned thirty-four.
Louie’s glare was two parts disbelief to one part disapproval. “Ezra, we don’t interrupt the speaker. It’s Evelyn’s turn to—”
“Twenty-eight,” Evelyn interjected, folding her arms across her chest. She was wearing a checkered men’s shirt today. It was about two sizes too big on her skinny shoulders. She had a way of staring you down when she talked that Ezra half admired and half found unsettling. He couldn’t help think that he wouldn’t want to interview her. “Why do you ask?”
Ezra hitched up his shoulders. “Sounds to me like he’s a grown man. Don’t see why he needs you to be his chaperone.”
Especially since Evelyn herself looked like she was in her early twenties at best. Granted, that might have been the lack of meat on her bones, but it didn’t bode well when a girl who needed group therapy to cope worried about keeping her brother company at some uppity shindig.
Helena Maeve has always been a globe trotter with a fondness for adventure, but only recently has she started putting to paper the many stories she's collected in her excursions. When she isn't writing erotic romance novels, she can usually be found in an airport or on a plane, furiously penning in her trusty little notebook.
Helena Maeve - Exclusive Author Feature
Totally Bound speaks exclusively to Helena Maeve about Fault Lines
Where did the idea for Fault Lines come from?
I knew I wanted to write something contemporary after Flight Made Easy and Collision Course. Or at least something without asteroids. Cynical, middle class Londoners in emotional distress seemed like the obvious alternative.
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Helena Maeve - Female First Feature
Helena Maeve on Fault Lines
Ninety-nine percent of the time, my novels never seem to turn out as I imagined them when I first put metaphorical pen to metaphorical paper. Fault Lines is no exception. When I sat down with my latest title, I sort of knew that I wanted to explore a relationship strained by addiction and issues of control, but without romanticizing or casting blame.
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