Published by Erin Noelle
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, is entirely coincidental.
All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.
Cover Graphics & Design: by Hang Le
Editing by Kayla Robichaux and Mandi Gibala
Formatting by Kassi Cooper
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Playlist
About the Author
“We the jury, find the defendant, Robert Allen Green, not guilty in the sole count of the crime of murder in the first degree.”
The words not guilty echo throughout the courtroom like a shot in the night. Everyone is stunned to silence, including the man on trial and his team of attorneys. The young, teen-aged girl sitting in the front row jumps up, tears streaming wildly down her face as she screams, “I saw him do it! I watched him kill my mom with my own eyes! How can this happen? What is wrong with you people?”
The judge bangs his gavel and calls for order in the court, while the adults surround the girl, pick her up, and carry her out of the courtroom. Right before they get her through the door, she turns over her shoulder and calls out in a choked sob. “You will pay for this! I will get revenge!”
“Miss Foster! Miss Foster! Is today puh-cussion day?”
“Miss Foster, can I play the bongo drums?”
“No, I want to play the bongos, Josie! Girls play the triangle!”
“Paul, you should play the bells, ‘cause you’re a ding dong.”
Chuckling to myself at the last comment, I attempt to get the class under control. “Okay, boys and girls, everyone take a seat on a colored circle and calm down. There will be plenty of opportunities for each of you to play all of the instruments today.” I don’t scold Josie for calling him a ding dong, even though I should; I have a hard time reprimanding students who speak the truth. Thankfully, all of the children listen and do as they’re told, without even an argument about who sits on which color.
I look around at their eager seven-year-old faces and my heart is filled with warmth. I love my job. The innocence of childhood is one of the few things that still brings joy to my life. Music is another… if only I could spend all of my days, here in the classroom, surrounded by these two untarnished things in my life. Unfortunately, that’s not the case, but I make sure to soak up every moment while I’m here. Turning my attention to the ten or so instruments I’ve set out for today’s lesson, I begin the hour long class.
Three classes later — all of which are second graders today — it’s time for lunch. I make my way down the hall to the teacher’s lounge and grab my food out of the refrigerator. My leftovers from the night before are almost finished heating up, when I hear an all too familiar voice screech behind me.
“Trina Foster! There you are, woman!” Her arms slip around my waist as she hugs my back, and I flinch just a bit.
“Hiya, Lauren. How’s your morning?” I ask, pulling my chicken and rice out of the microwave. I turn around to face her cute little freckled face and can tell by her expression that it hasn’t been a good one. “Uh oh, what’s wrong?”
She motions for me to follow her to one of the sofas. We both plop down after I set my food on the table nearest to me. “First, tell me about your spring break. Did you do anything fun? Go on any hot dates?” she asks hopefully.
I shake my head and laugh. “Boring, no, and no. Okay, your turn. What or who has got you all upset today?”
“Oh, just a bunch of shit. I found out that prick Jason is dating like four other girls, my rent is increasing a couple hundred dollars when my lease is up in the summer, I’m so pathetic I spent the majority of the week off at my parents’ house, and my kids are refusing to listen today.” She flashes a big, cheesy, fake smile at me. “So not much, really.”
I push my glasses up on my nose a bit and tilt my head at her. “Screw Jason, find a new place to live, be thankful you have parents to visit, and they’re kids; be patient. It’s the first day back after vacation.” Smiling sweetly at her, I take a bite of my lunch.
“Well, don’t you have all the answers? I think I’ll just call you Alex Trebek,” she teases, then takes a long slurp from her diet shake thing that she always drinks for lunch.
“No, no. I don’t look like an Alex at all. I could never pull that off — my boobs prevent me from being a boy-Alex and I’m not nearly exotic enough to be a girl-Alex,” I reply deadpan.
We both burst out laughing to the point I think she’s going to choke on her drink. Everyone in the room looks at us like we are crazy, and I immediately get quiet. I hate to bring attention to myself here at work. I don’t need anyone passing judgment on me or assuming they know anything about me. I’d prefer they not think about me at all.
“Shh, Lauren, people are staring,” I urge her to stop making a scene.
“Oh, who cares, Trina?” she asks waving her hand in the air. “They’re all a bunch of old fogeys. We really need to get you to loosen up some.”
I simply shake my head and gather up my containers, leaving her sitting on the couch to go throw my trash away. We’ve had this conversation way too many times, and I really don’t want to do it again today.
“You are nearly twenty three years old. You need a life outside your job. It’s not healthy,” she hisses into my ear a few seconds later. “Come out with me tonight or one day this week… just one drink and we will be home early.”
Groaning, I turn around and stare at her, my face expressionless. “I appreciate your concern for my health, but my primary care physician, gyne
cologist, and psychologist all seem to think that I’m just fine. I like my life the way it is — easy and drama-free. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a classroom of budding musicians waiting for me.”
I walk past her, leaving her standing there, mouth wide open. I don’t want to be rude to one of my only friends, I don’t like to hurt people’s feelings, but I don’t know any other way to get her off my back about my social life. No one understands.
As I grab the door knob to exit the lounge, she calls out, “I’m not giving up, Trina! I will break you eventually!” I pause for a moment, closing my eyes and shaking my head. I contemplate turning around and saying something back, but I’m sure we have an audience at this point. Instead, I turn the knob and push the door open… right into someone’s face.
“Crap! That hurt!” I hear a male voice say seconds after I feel the door make contact.
“Oh my goodness! I’m so sorry!” I squeak as I move to see my victim.
Standing there — holding his nose as blood streams out like he just climbed out of an MMA octagon — is a guy around my age, that I’ve never seen before, dressed in khakis and a white polo.
“You’re bleeding! Oh, I feel awful! I’m so sorry; I didn’t know you were standing there,” I squeak out an apology, unsure of what to do.
He laughs softly and I bring my eyes to meet his. They are the most unusual eyes I have ever seen — one is sky blue, while the other is a light brown. In any other circumstances, I would comment on the uniqueness of it, but right now I’m too flustered. When he speaks to me, I look away, realizing that I’ve been staring. “I should hope not, or I’d be really offended.”
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“I hope you didn’t know I was standing there and hit me on purpose,” he explains. “Then, I may think you don’t like me.”
I blush and continue to keep my gaze far from his. “I don’t know if I like you or not; I don’t know you. I’ve never seen you around here before.”
“That would be because today is my first day here. I’m taking over for Ms. Jordan who’s on maternity leave for the rest of the year. Ya know, I would love to continue this conversation at a different time when I could actually shake your hand and not be covering my face, but I should probably clean up and get some ice on this,” he says, his voice softening a bit.
I nod my head. “I’m sorry again about your nose and your shirt. If you bring it to me I can get those stains out for you.”
He looks down at the blood stains on his shoulder and chest, and instead of getting angry or frustrated, he laughs. “Okay, Miss; I’m sorry I didn’t get your name.”
“Miss Foster,” I reply quickly, still looking down at the ground. “And I really should go, my kids will be waiting.”
“Yes ma’am, Miss Foster. I’ll take you up on that offer.” I nod again and raise my head up to his chest level, so it doesn’t appear that I’m completely rude. “My name is Lucca, or Mr. Ellis, if we’re sticking with last names. And despite the circumstances, it was a pleasure to meet you.” I hear the playful tone in his voice; he knows I’m embarrassed, but he’s trying not to make me feel more uncomfortable.
Spinning on my heel, I hurry back to my classroom and try desperately to forget about the lunch encounter over the remainder of the afternoon classes. The kids make it easy to get lost in their excitement over beating on some drums and making as much noise as possible. It’s not often they get to do this without getting yelled at about it. When the final bell rings a little after three o’clock, I say goodbye to my last class of the day and begin to clean up the room. Being Monday, it’s hot yoga day, and I’m really looking forward to a session of sweaty planks, downward dogs, and cobras.
I’m bent over putting away the last of the drums when I hear someone clear their throat at the door. I sigh aloud, assuming that it’s Lauren, and without turning around, I say, “I’m not going out with you tonight or any other night. It’s just not happening. Ever.”
“Our initial introduction wasn’t ideal, I agree, but I think you’re being rather harsh,” that same throaty voice that had danced in my ears earlier in the day retorts.
Snapping upright and turning around sharply, my entire face enflames. “Oh my goodness, Lucca, or uh Mr. Ellis, I’m so sorry… again.” I shake my head, hardly believing what an idiot I can be. “I thought you were someone else. I didn’t mean to be so rude. I wouldn’t say that… I mean, it’s not that I do want to… I mean, I didn’t…” I just stop talking since nothing is coming out right.
He continues to stand in the doorway, grinning like a fool, obviously enjoying the fact that I’m rattled. “You were saying?” he asks.
Now that he’s not covering his face, I can’t help but to notice how handsome he is… even with the bandage on his nose and the beginnings of a black eye. His hair is as dark as mine is light and he’s got that style where it’s sticking up every which way, like he just rolled out of bed, yet it still looks perfect. He’s got the kind of smile that makes most girls go weak in the knees. Thank God, I’m not most girls. I mentally pull myself together to find my voice and my inner calm.
“I apologize for those remarks; I honestly thought you were someone else. And again, I’m sorry for the collision earlier,” I say softly. “I’m usually not so rude as to give someone a black eye and verbally accost them within the first day of meeting. Now, what is it that brings you by this afternoon?”
He leisurely walks over to where I stand, smirking the entire way. I don’t like the way he makes me feel, and I really don’t like the way he’s looking at me right now. “Well, Miss Foster, if I remember correctly, you offered to take care of my shirt for me.” He pauses and pulls the shirt over his head, leaving him standing in just his pants less than three feet from me. Instinctively, my eyes are drawn to his tight chest and abs like fingers to a cello; his torso is perfect instrumentally. I force myself to pull my stare up to his face, to those exquisite eyes. He’s still got that shit-eating grin on his face, and he knows exactly what he’s doing. He holds the shirt out to me and I snatch it from his hands.
“I’ll return it to you soon,” I force out in my sweetest possible voice and then turn away to walk towards my desk. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’s getting to me. I hear his footsteps walking towards the door, but before he leaves, he calls out, “Yes ma’am, Miss Foster, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
My entire body flinches at his words.
Drying off after my nightly bubble bath, I lather up my freshly shaved, now extremely smooth skin in my favorite Kanebo Sensai body cream. My skin feels like pure silk and smells like a whiff of heaven after I apply it from head to toe. There truly is no other lotion or cream on the market that is even close to this stuff. I’m not sure what it is about it, but something in the plants and extracts that they use, make it worth every dollar I spend on it — all four hundred of them.
I slide into my black, silk robe, not even bothering with the tie that dangles around my waist, and make my way to the kitchen. I grab the open bottle of 2011 Chevalier-Montrachet out of the wine chiller and pour myself a healthy glass. After the first sip of the expressive chardonnay, my taste buds come to life and I moan aloud in delight. The hint of spicy floral mixed with a zest of lemon is an impeccable combination, and much like my lotion, is irreplaceable in my nightly ritual.
Leisurely making my way back to my bedroom with my vino, I saunter into my closet to decide what I’m going to wear tonight. Typically, I wear all black on Monday’s, but after the day I’ve had, I’m feeling a little like breaking the rules tonight — even if they are my own rules. Shaking my head and laughing softly at myself, I grab my new sapphire-blue fitted dress off of its hanger with a pair of silver stilettos and throw them on my oversized bed.
I head back into the bathroom and climb up on the marble countertop, yelping as my bare ass hits the cold surface. I have to sit up here to put my make up on; it’s like it doesn’t apply correctly if I don’t
. It’s similar to when I have to fix my hair standing in front of the left sink instead of the right. There’s a certain way and order that everything needs to be done in, otherwise my inner balance gets thrown off and I spin a little out of control, and nobody wants that to happen.
Smiling at myself in the mirror, I begin to apply the dark charcoal eyeliner that frames my crystal blue eyes, then I follow it up with several thick coats of mascara. I’m blessed that I have naturally long lashes and don’t have to go through the trouble of falsies; unfortunately, they are just very pale, like everything else on me. After a little blush and all over shimmery powder, I overlay my naturally ruby lips with a thin coat of cherry lip gloss and blow myself a kiss in the mirror. Seriously, who could resist this face?
I hop off of the counter and move over to the hair station, bringing my now half-finished glass of wine with me. I release my long flaxen blonde hair from the clip that’s been holding it on top of my head, allowing it to cascade down my back. Thirty minutes with the straightener and I’m good to go. I stare at my reflection one last time before turning to get dressed. Perfect ~ just enough make up to accent my eyes and lips and my hair looks better than Duchess Catherine’s. I have mastered the concept of sexy without slutty. People have always told me that I have the face of a porcelain doll, and truly, I must agree. Unfortunately for them, I share the same emotional capacity as one of those dolls in my bitter, frozen heart.
I take off the robe, hang it in its designated spot on the back of the bathroom door, and then prance naked over to my wardrobe to choose my lingerie for the evening. This is probably my favorite part of the entire getting ready process. A woman’s undergarments truly say so much about her mood and intentions. For example, a woman in a white cotton bra and panties probably isn’t thinking about getting fucked, and even if she is, she doesn’t care much about impressing her partner. Whereas a lady in sheer black lace is at least hoping that someone will get a peek at her without clothes on. The fabric and color of my intimate apparel most definitely affects my attitude and disposition; plus, it’s the basis on which an entire outfit is built around.