I take my wallet from my interior jacket pocket and remove a hundred-dollar bill. I slide it in her direction across the table. “What about the people she’s sitting with?”
She sees the money on the table and picks it up to deposit in the pocket of her black apron before turning to see who my songstress is sitting with. “The blond guy is Ben Donavon and his friend is Zac Kingston. They’re regulars in here, two or three times a week.”
Why is this American here with those blokes? “She sounds American. Do you know why she would be with them?”
“Ben is a Yank. His family owns a vineyard in California and he’s here to study wine at the uni. I think she’d have to be someone he knows from home.”
I hold up a second hundred-dollar bill between my fingers. “See this? It’s yours if you can find out what she’s doing here and how long she’ll be in Wagga Wagga. And find out if she’s dating either one of the blokes.”
She smiles and I see she’s interested in playing my little game. “I’ll be back to collect that in a minute.”
I sit back and enjoy my Shiraz while the waitress does my detective work. A visiting American couldn’t be more perfect for my next companion. Once our relationship is over, she would be on an entirely different continent, which ensures we won’t have any accidental future run-ins.
My stay in Wagga Wagga is becoming more promising.
I finish my glass of Shiraz as my waitress returns. “Her name is …”
I cut her off before she can finish her sentence. “No, I don’t want to know her name.”
I can see this stumps her, but money is money. “Ben’s sister is her best friend and they’ve come to spend the summer with him. She met Ben and Zac for the first time today.”
Good. That means she isn’t dating either of them.
If the guys are students in the wine science program at the university, I’m guessing they will be at the vintage dinner at the school on Friday night. They’ll be anxious to showcase their wines. I wonder if she’ll be there as a guest.
I pull another bill from my wallet and hold it up for Blondie to see. “This is yours if you can find out what their plans are for the vintage dinner at the university on Friday night. I want to know if the brunette will be there.”
She smiles again. “I could play this game all night.”
Ten minutes later, she returns with another Shiraz and an update. “The guys will be presenting their wines at the dinner, and both girls will be guests.”
I slide the well-earned bill across the table. “Perfect. Thank you.”
“It’s been my pleasure. Would you like me to keep the Shiraz coming?”
“Yes.”
I spend the next hour stealing glances at the beautiful American through the crowd of people between us as they shift. I’m disappointed when the foursome gets up to leave, but I see the perfect opportunity for a convenient face-to-face encounter when she moves toward the restrooms.
I migrate in that direction and wait for her to emerge for our chance meeting in the hallway. When the door to the ladies’ room opens, I walk toward her, but she’s looking down into her purse. She attempts to dodge right, so I move with her. “Pardon me.”
Her accent is so unusual. And endearing.
She steps to her left and I move with her like a mirror image. “So sorry, Miss.”
Look up at me.
“Wanna dance?” she laughs as she lifts her eyes from her purse.
“I’d love to.” Her smile spreads with my reply. We lock eyes and I try to identify the color of hers, but I can’t. It’s too dark in the narrow hallway.
I was right. She is the one.
She seems embarrassed. “I’m sorry. Asking someone to dance is an expression we use where I’m from. You know? Like when two people try to get around one another as we just did.”
“I’m familiar with the expression, but one can always hope.” I step around her toward the door to the men’s room. “I think I would have enjoyed a dance with you.”
Purchase this Book
EXCERPT: A NECESSARY SIN
THE SIN TRILOGY: BOOK I
I’ve watched him from afar for years. And he has no idea. I take joy in that.
Through my observations, I’ve learned what makes this charming villain tick.
Whisky.
Power.
Beautiful women.
And Sex. Lots of it.
Sometimes you must get into bed with the enemy for the greater good. And that’s what I’ll do; it’s all part of making Sinclair Breckenridge fall in love with me so I can penetrate his inner circle.
There’s hell to pay.
I’m a dark horse. The perfect storm.
I am Bleu MacAllister. And I’m coming for him.
PROLOGUE
STELLA BLEU LAWRENCE
AGE SEVEN
I’m wearing my pretty pink princess apron and chef hat while doing my most favoritest thing in the world–baking chocolate chip cookies with my mama. I inspect the shiny plastic roll of dough, studying the picture of the white fluffy pastry boy on the package before turning it around for her to see. “Mama, look. He’s wearing a puffy hat just like mine. Except mine’s prettier.” Everything is prettier when it’s pink.
My mama sprays the pan we’re using for our cookies. “He sure is, Bleubird. And I think you’re right. Yours is much prettier. Did you know only the best chefs in the world wear hats like yours?”
Wow. This hat makes me one of the best chefs in the world so that means these cookies are going to be the most delicious I’ve ever baked.
“It’s your favorite song,” I squeal when “Amanda” begins to play. Mama says Boston sings that song just for her. I think she could be right since Amanda is her name.
We always listen to music when we’re cooking so I’ve heard this song a million times. I know every word by heart but I don’t understand what it means. Mama says it’s all about grown-up stuff and I’ll understand one day. I’m not sure I ever want to understand. Grown-up stuff makes my mama cry. A lot.
I’m singing my guts out because it always makes her crack up. I love seeing her laugh because it means she isn’t crying. She’s too pretty to cry so much.
She holds the plastic roll of dough to her mouth and pretends it’s a microphone. She sings so pretty. Everything about Mama is pretty. I hope I grow up to be just like her.
The song gets to the part where there are no words, only guitars, so she puts her pretend microphone on the counter and slices into it with a sharp knife. She always does that part because she says I’m still too little to use knives. My job is to roll the dough into little balls. I’m not always great at it, though. Some come out big, some little. But she always tells me I’ve done a great job–even when I know I haven’t.
“Can I have a bite of dough?” She’s making her “no” face. “Please … with lots and lots of sugar on top.”
I can’t remember why she said it’s okay to eat the cookie dough after it comes out of the oven, but not before. “Hailey’s mama lets her have cookie dough.”
“Maybe one little bite will be okay, but we’re not going to make a habit of this, little lady.” She pinches off a tiny ball and I almost jump up and down because I’m so happy. I’ve always wanted to taste it because Hailey says it’s delicious.
I miss cooking with Mama. We used to do it all the time but that was before she started her new job. She works at night so she has to leave me with our neighbor. Amelia’s nice to me but she’s old, smells funny, and never wants to play. All she does is sit in her chair with her feet up and watch that news show where the same stories repeat over and over. It’s sooo boring.
I finish my tiny ball of cookie dough and immediately want more. “Another? Please, with sugar on top.” That worked the first time.
“No, Stella. I said one bite and that’s what I meant so don’t ask again.” I knew she’d say no but it was worth a try.
I line the balls of dough on the pan and she puts them in the pr
eheated oven. “We’ll check them in ten minutes.” She sets the timer on the stove because we don’t want to burn them. We love our cookies gooey. “What do you want to do while we wait?”
I look at the roll of leftover dough in the roll. “Umm … eat cookie dough?” I grin and bat my eyelashes, as if that’s going to get me what I want but she doesn’t budge. I only succeed in making her laugh, which is better than making her mad since I asked again after she told me not to.
I sit at the table in our kitchen, tortured by the smell of baking cookies. “They smell sooo good. How much longer?”
I’m not sure why I asked. I can plainly see the timer counting down. “Five more minutes.”
I huff and blow my hair out of my face and prop my chin on my hands. “I wish they’d hurry up. I’m ready to taste those ooey-gooey cookies.”
“Good things come to those who wait.” She tells me that all the time but I don’t understand why good things can’t come sooner instead of later. I hate waiting. “Do you want milk with your cookies?”
“Yes!” I run to the fridge and swing the smaller side open. I hope we have mugs in the freezer. I love that milky ice that forms in the glass.
The doorbell rings and Max, our ginormous German shepherd, barks as he runs toward the door. I bounce up from the kitchen table to follow him. “I bet it’s Hailey wanting to play.”
Mama puts her hand out and catches me by the back of my shirt. “That’s not Hailey. Her mother wouldn’t let her come over this late.” She goes up on her tiptoes and spies through the peephole. She jerks back and twists to look at me before placing her finger to her lips. “Shh.” She tiptoes to me and takes my hand. She grabs Max by the collar and takes us down the hallway.
She goes to her knees so we’re face to face and holds both of my shoulders when we are in my bedroom. “Listen to me very carefully. We’re going to play a little game. I want you to hide under your bed and be very, very quiet. Stay there until I return and tell you it’s okay to come out. Do you understand, Stella?”
I nod, afraid and confused, but I do as I’m told and crawl under my bed.
“Max, stay,” she commands. I see him obey, his butt sitting on my carpet, but he doesn’t understand that he’s supposed to be quiet. He’s whining the way he does when he wants to disobey. “Don’t come out no matter what you hear,” Mama says.
I watch her feet leave my room and she pulls my bedroom door shut. I lie silently on the floor beneath my bed, waiting for her to return so I can come out. This game is not fun.
The music gets super-duper loud. Loud enough that I’m sure the neighbors will call and complain to Mr. Johnson.
It’s another song I know by Boston. “More Than a Feeling.” The guitar is screaming so I know we’re going to get in trouble with the landlord. Our neighbor, Mr. Benson, likes to turn us in every chance he gets. He doesn’t like us much and I don’t know why.
The carpet is making my cheek itch so I lift my face to scratch it. In the process, I bump the back of my head on the railing of my bed. “Oww.” I put my hand over my head and rub it where it burns.
Max gets up from where he’s sitting and scratches at the carpet, trying to get out of my room. He whines louder and begins barking as he paws at the door. “Stop, Max. You’re gonna make Mama mad if you scratch the paint.”
I hear a bang, the loudest noise I’ve ever heard in my life, and my heart beats faster than I can ever remember. “Mama?” I whisper but stay put because it’s what she told me to do. Don’t come out until I say it’s okay.
What was that loud sound?
I smell the burning cookies. Mama wouldn’t let our cookies burn.
I think something bad is happening.
Max howls, now clawing to get out, and I press my face into the carpet so I can see between the floor and my bed skirt. I think about letting him out so he can go to Mama.
I don’t have time to do it before my bedroom door opens slowly. Max backs away and then lunges for the leg of the person coming into my bedroom.
I hear that same bang again, this time even louder, before seeing Max fall to the floor.
Red. It’s splattered all over my beige carpet and I know what it is. I want to scream at the top of my lungs but I can’t. My breath is gone and it feels like there’s a person I can’t see covering my mouth with a hand to quiet me.
I want to squeeze my eyes shut but I can’t because I’m watching the big, black shiny shoes come toward my bed. It’s a man and his pants are torn where Max bit him. He’s bleeding.
His feet go still next to my head. I hold my breath so he won’t hear me but I can’t do it for long. It feels the same as when I’ve been under water too long. My body forces me to take a breath. It’s louder than I intend. I hear it so I’m scared he did too.
His feet don’t move and then the bed skirt next to my head lifts. “I see you under there,” he says and I recognize his voice. He’s that man that talks funny.
My mama has never let me meet him but I know it’s him–the man who comes here to see her at night after I’ve gone to bed. She calls him Thane. “You can come out, wee darlin’.”
I squeeze my eyes and scoot away. “Mama told me to stay here until she comes back.”
He crouches next to the bed. I still can’t make out his face but I see the bloodstain getting bigger on his pants where Max bit him. “She says it’s okay. Your mum sent me to your room to get you.”
I don’t believe this man. He’s bad. He killed my dog. “No.”
“How old are you, toots? Six? Seven?” he asks.
I back away until I’m pressed against the wall.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment but when he does, it’s loud. “Fuck! Why did that wench have to go and have a bairn in the house?” he yells in a growly voice as he kicks my bed. I’m shaking because I’m scared. I squeeze my hands over my ears because I don’t want to hear him yell.
He reaches beneath my bed and grabs my ankle, yanking me from the safe place. I have nowhere to go so I curl into a ball and wrap my arms around my head. I know what comes next. I’ve seen what bad men do. They hit.
“Oh, toots. I really don’t want to do this but I have no choice.”
I squeeze my eyes tighter and wait for the pain to come. But that isn’t what happens. He flips me to my back and presses something soft and feathery into my face so I can’t breathe.
I kick, struggling for air, but he presses it harder. I fight with every ounce of strength I have but it’s no use. He’s a grown-up and I’m only a little girl. I don’t have the strength to make him stop and I’m afraid. I’m about to die.
Then everything goes black.
CHAPTER 1
BLEU MACALLISTER
MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE
Just as a rose is unable to change its color, it isn’t possible for us to alter the past. It’s only once you realize this that you’ll be set free. This sounds really lovely, like it should be a quote in a book, but what happens when you can’t break the chains clutching you to a devastating and life-altering event? No one likes to talk about that kind of ugliness.
Events in our lives shape us. There’s basically two categories–good or bad. I’m not going to touch on the praiseworthy since I’m not a motivational speaker. I want to address the ugly.
This isn’t a perfect world. Bad things happen to good people. True evil exists and it walks this earth in the form of a well-suited man wearing expensive shoes. He speaks with a charming Scottish accent and smells of liquor and sweet tobacco. My mother’s killer.
Most children are too naïve to recognize the moment they are being ruined for the rest of their lives. I wasn’t that lucky. I remember everything about that dreadful day and the memories often replay in my head–the bitter aroma of burning cookies, the smell of gunpowder floating in the air, even the vision of seeing Max’s brains splattered onto my carpet. I wish the amnesia I claimed to have would’ve stolen those gruesome memories. Maybe then this unquenchable demon with a
thirst for hunting and executing wouldn’t have been spawned inside me.
That was the day Stella Bleu Lawrence died. And Bleu MacAllister was born.
I can barely recall a time in my life when I wasn’t obsessed with finding our attacker. I’ve spent years imagining the different ways he might beg for mercy as I hold a gun to his temple. These were the aspirations in my head when my mind would drift from memorizing presidents and state capitals. I never had innocent, childlike thoughts. My dreams weren’t of becoming the doctor to discover the cure for cancer or becoming the first female president; they were consumed by dark, vengeful thoughts.
For eighteen years, every aspect of my life has revolved around retaliation in one form or another, with the exception of the two pleasures I allowed myself: photography and playing violin.
Other kids took karate lessons for fun. I took Muay Thai for strength and defense skills. Girls my age enrolled in gymnastics because it’s what all their friends were doing. I became a gymnast to learn balance and agility. My fellow ballerinas liked wearing tutus. I became a dancer to master grace. I wasn’t naturally the brightest student so I excelled to the top of my class by becoming the most studious. Why? I’ve always known being the smartest person in the room would one day be my greatest tool. An intelligent person has a chance at outwitting another using a gun in place of his brain.
How does a person live this way without going mad? It wasn’t easy. But I had a confidant–my dad.
I was twelve years old when I sat Harry, my adoptive father, down and told him it was time for a talk. No, not about the birds and bees. I’m certain that would’ve been much more preferable. Instead, I described my memories of the dreadful day my mother was murdered and how I was suffocated with a pillow and left for dead.
I’d spent the previous five years claiming to have no memory of the horrid event. To say Harry was shocked to learn the truth would be an understatement. But that didn’t hold a candle to what came next. Telling him I intended to hunt and execute Thane Breckenridge was the straw that broke the camel’s back.