TALENTBORN:AWAKENING
Book 1 of the TalentBorn Series
C. S. Churton
This is a work of fiction. The characters and events described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or to living persons alive or dead. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher except for brief quotations embodied in critical reviews.
Copyright © 2019 by C. S. Churton
All rights reserved.
Dedication
To those who believed I could, even when I thought I couldn’t. This book wouldn’t be here without you.
Chapter One
Let me be honest with you: today isn’t panning out quite the way I hoped. Actually, that’s putting it mildly. Hell, it’s the understatement of the century. If I had to give you a list of ways today could get worse, I’d be drawing a blank. Maybe you’re thinking that’s just because I lack imagination, and maybe you’re right, but let me ask you this: how the hell am I, a waitress at the crappiest diner in town, going to get a grand by morning? Because if there’s one thing I’m passionate about in this world, it’s not getting evicted.
“I’m sorry, Miss Mason, but given your credit rating the bank doesn’t feel we’re able to offer you a loan at this time,” the clerk says, pushing his glasses further up his nose and eyeing me across his immaculate desk.
Translation: We only give money to people who don’t need it. I open my mouth to tell the clerk and his condescending smile exactly what I think of that policy. Then I close it again before I make a bad day worse by getting myself thrown out and publicly humiliated. Besides, it’s not his fault I’m having a cash flow problem, even if he is a smug prick. On the other hand, does he have to sound quite so damned happy about turning me down? It’s not like I spent all my money on drugs and alcohol, because that would imply I’d had money to start with.
“Yeah, thanks,” I say, snatching up my bag from his desk and stalk from his office before I can follow that with the word ‘dickhead’, not bothering to shut the door behind me. It’s only a short distance from clerk’s office to the bank’s front door, but by the time I reach it my self-righteous stalk has been reduced to a defeated shuffle. Shit, what am I going to do? My rent’s due tomorrow and I can scrape together maybe half of it. Tips have been way down at the restaurant, and I don’t think my landlord is going to settle for smiles and goodwill.
I let the heavy glass door swing shut behind me as I emerge into the shopping centre, and almost get mowed down by a pair of women pushing buggies with their grubby offspring inside. You know the sort: bottle blonde hair scraped back to show off the type of earrings you hang could your washing on, tank-top at least a size too small, makeup applied with a hand trowel and– Well, I’ll spare you the rest. My bag gets knocked right out of my hands, falling to the floor and spilling its contents everywhere. I scowl at the women’s oblivious backs, and stoop to grab it. The walking wastes of oxygen don’t so much as glance back while I’m picking up my scattered possessions; they’re far too busy staring at something shiny in the window of the jewellers.
“Mark said I could choose whichever engagement ring I want,” one of them croons in an annoyingly high-pitched voice, jostling her bag-laden buggy as she peers through the window, and paying no attention to the toddler inside it who starts to whine.
“I still can’t believe he proposed!”
“I want one with diamonds,” Mother-of-the-Year says. “And then matching white gold ones when we get married.”
I stop paying attention as I cram the rest of my belongings back into my bag. Bully for them. I’m so glad some people have unlimited money to squander on a ring they’re going to wear for a few months. I’ve seen the price tags on those rings. Any one of them would cover my rent. And don’t even get me started on the necklaces. Some of them could pay it for a year. They’re right there for the taking.
I seriously did not just think that. I mean, I’m desperate, but I’m not that desperate. The first – and last – thing I ever stole was a chocolate bar – I was nine years old and I cried all night and took it back the next morning. Anyway, I’m sure places like this have cameras, and– I glance over the prattling pair’s shoulders and into the shop. It’s busy in there, rammed with weekend shoppers. They probably wouldn’t even notice if one of the cheaper rings went missing. Not at first, anyway, and I’m sure the cameras are focussed on the expensive stuff. I’m not greedy. It hasn’t got to be a pricey one. The cheapest item in the whole jewellers would probably do it.
I push open the door almost before I know what I’m doing, letting my long hair fall around my face. You know, just in case a camera sees me. I make it four steps inside before my feet stutter to a halt. What in the hell am I doing? I’m a lot of things – not all of them good – but I’m not a thief. I turn around, and for the second time almost get run over by soon-to-be Mrs Waste-of-Oxygen. This time she stops long enough to glare at me like it’s my fault she isn’t looking where she’s going. I smother the childish impulse to flip her off because her toddler’s watching me, in between screaming his lungs out.
His doting mother ignores us both and picks up her conversation where it left off.
“I can’t wait to show everyone my diamonds!”
“What did Tom say when you broke it off when him?”
“Who said I was going to? Every girl needs a bit on the side!”
They flounce off towards the most expensive rings in the shop, the loud of their cackles trailing in their wake, like nails down a chalkboard.
Stuck up cow. Her, I wouldn’t mind stealing from. In what world is it right that someone like that gets showered with expensive gifts while I can barely afford to keep a roof over my head? I’ll tell you what world. None. I clench my jaw and pivot on my heel, heading in the opposite direction to the nauseating pair, and let my eyes sweep over the display cabinets. Rings, necklaces and earrings are all perfectly illuminated by subtle backlighting, so that their jewels sparkle and twinkle in their settings. Inside locked cabinets.
There goes that plan. I’m no lock pick, and a smash and grab is going to attract just a little more attention than I’m looking for. It’s probably for the best. I’m hardly cut out for a life of crime. I got one of our regulars’ orders wrong at the restaurant a few weeks back, and I felt guilty about it for days.
“This way, madam, if you’d like to look in a mirror…”
My head turns to the source of the voice behind me: an impeccably dressed young male sales assistant who’s giving his best ingratiating smile to a middle-aged woman with a suspiciously straight nose and a wardrobe that screams designer. I wonder which of them cost her more. She follows him, sweeping her perfect blonde locks aside to admire the gaudy string of pearls hanging around her neck. He doesn’t pause to lock the case behind them, leaving it open just a crack. I look from the cabinet to the pair and back again. My heart thuds painfully in my chest as I edge closer to it and shoot another glance at the pair. The assistant’s attention is firmly on his customer, wearing a smile that looks just the wrong side of genuine, and the woman is lapping up the attention as she flips her hair again. Meanwhile, the display is just sitting there, practically begging a hand to slip inside and relieve it of its extravagant contents. Half a dozen necklaces and matching earrings, and rings that complement the sets. I’m not greedy. I don’t need them all. I don’t even need a set. Just one ring. That’s all I need. All I have to do is take it.
I lift a shaking hand and take another quick look around the roo
m. Geez, Anna, get it together. Does anything scream ‘guilty’ more than a nervous glance over the shoulder? I grit my teeth and ease the door open a crack further, and– Dammit! I’m looking around again before I can stop myself, even while my fingers are fumbling over the nearest ring.
That’s when I see them. The two cops talking to a sharply-dressed guy who can only be the manager.
If my hand wasn’t right into the display cabinet and my fingers wrapped around the ostentatious ring, I could probably have just walked right out of the store, but it is and they are, and I can barely remember how to breathe, let alone walk. One cop glances in my direction and… I’m not sure if I imagine it, but it looks like he stares at me just a moment longer than necessary. Can he see what I’m doing? I’m still staring at him, that’s got to be making him suspicious, and dammit, my hand is still in the display cabinet. The manager is staring at me, the two cops are staring at me, even some of the customers are turning to look at me, and I’m standing here like a kid with its hand in the cookie jar.
One cop says something to the other and they start walking purposefully towards me. Shit. I snap out of my daze and yank my hand from the cabinet, the ring snug against my palm. I turn and make for the door on shaking legs, forcing them to move as fast as they can without breaking into a run. I elbow my way past the Saturday afternoon shoppers, leaving a trail of cross mutters and angry looks in my wake.
“Police, stop!”
I reach the door and break into a run, making right for the crowds in the busiest part of the shopping centre. The whole place is heaving with window shoppers and day trippers, I just need to lose myself in the masses and leave this whole sorry mess behind me. My feet pound on the tiled floor as I dodge through the thickening crowds, then have to slow to a fast jog – it’s too packed to sprint. I leap sideways just in time to keep from ploughing into a mother leading her toddler, and almost bounce straight into a young couple with hands entwined. I duck aside, too breathless to utter an apology, and shut out the angry yells.
What the hell was I thinking? Normal people don’t do this. This is not normal behaviour. What a stupid thing to do. I’m so screwed. I should just take the ring back and tell them it was a mistake. Tell them I was just looking, or trying it on, or…
But I’m running from cops. Innocent people don’t run from cops. It’s way too late to play dumb now.
I snatch another look over my shoulder. They’re gaining on me. My plan to blend in with the crowd is a bad one because everyone is staring at the idiot running from the cops, and I can’t stop running because the cops are right on my heels. And getting closer still.
I collide with someone, a solid thud that knocks the breath from my lungs, and I pivot to see the offending person sprawled on the floor. The old lady’s shopping is tossed around her and her walking stick is skidding off to one side. A horrible acidic guilt burns in my stomach, but she’s not hurt, and if I help her up I’m caught. I can’t get caught. I’ll lose everything. My job, my home. I wish I’d thought of all that before dreaming up this stupid, stupid stunt.
I stutter an apology and start tearing through the shoppers again, this time keeping my head firmly forwards. It’s easier now: the crowds of shoppers are starting to move out of my way – which just means it’s easier for the cops to see me. I need to get out of the shopping centre. I gasp a ragged breath and glance at the shops on either side of me.
There! I spot what I’m looking for up ahead, grit my teeth and push myself harder, ignoring the fire in my chest and ache in my calves. People move aside like the parting of the red sea and I barge through into the discount clothes, almost bouncing right back off the door in my haste to get through it. My feet scramble for purchase on the tiled floor but somehow don’t slide out from under me. I suck in another breath that burns the whole way down and fix my eyes on the escalator on the far side of the store. There’s an exit onto the street from the ground floor. If I can get to it, I’ve got a chance.
I topple a clothing rail behind me, muttering a silent apology to whichever unfortunate is responsible for tidying it up, and push on towards the escalator. I steady myself I reach it, taking care not to lose my footing. The sound of boots on the metal steps rings behind, but I don’t dare look at how close my pursuers are. I reach the bottom step and get ready to run again. Something snags my shirt. A hand. I twist and manage to wrench myself free, but as I look across the empty floor to the exit, the second cop appears and cuts me off. I skid to halt, swivelling my head around frantically. How did he get in front of me? I don’t have time to think about it – I have to find a way out. I can’t go forward, I can’t go back, and I can’t let them catch me. I’ve only got a split second to react, to do something, anything – I’ve got to get out of here, I’ve got to–
Chapter Two
I awaken, and for a moment I don’t have the first idea where I am. The beige walls blur into focus first, followed by faded furniture and a small TV in need of polishing, which tell me I'm lying in my own living room. I twist my head to the right, wincing as the mother of all hangovers makes its presence felt, and see the dust bunnies gathered under the TV stand, which tells me I'm lying on the floor, next to a perfectly good (albeit slightly aged) sofa. The bright light is trying to burn right through my retinas so I close my eyes, and run my mind idly over the crazy dream I'd been having.
Running, a shopping centre, a ring...
The ring! I sit bolt up right, because I remember the ring vividly and I can feel my fingers wrapped around something that's digging into my palm. I slowly force them open, not wanting to look, but my eyes have a will of their own, and they're staring at the white gold band, with tiny diamonds embedded into the elegant design. I blink rapidly, because this ring means that it was no dream, which means that I should be in a cell right now.
I remove the ring from my palm and set it delicately on the floor, squinting at it suspiciously for a long moment. My head is still foggy and nothing about this is making any sort of sense. If it weren't for the tiny midget taking a sledgehammer to my skull from the inside I'd swear I was still dreaming, but dreams don't normally hurt this much.
I rise tentatively from the floor, pausing to test my balance for a moment, then lurch to the kitchen. There’s a chipped mug painted with a faded floral pattern on the draining board so I grab it and turn on the tap, watching the cold water tumble into the coffee-stained glazed ceramic and splash up its sides. The water is refreshing and I drain the entire mug, and then a second, enjoying the cooling sensation as it spreads down my throat.
Like every kitchen the world over, mine has a junk drawer, and it only takes a few moments of rummaging to turn up a box of paracetamol. I push two of the little white pills from the blister pack and put them in my mouth, washing them down with more water, then head back into the living room.
As I settle into the sofa and wait for them to work their magic, I run through the events of yesterday – or was it today? A glance at my phone tells me it's six p.m., and it's still Saturday – I run through the events of this afternoon, but it's just a jumbled blur. I remember everything, right up to the bottom of the escalator, when I’d been trapped by the cops. I must've blacked out when I got back here – there's no other reason I'd be sleeping on the floor in the middle of the afternoon – but as for how I got from the scene of my imminent arrest to lying unconscious in my slightly grubby flat? That's a mystery.
With a sigh, I massage my temples and close my eyes. My phone bleeps insistently, and I grope for the silence button to shut off the alarm. Work in one hour. I consider calling in sick, but I need the money. Ed Grant – my less than sympathetic landlord – is threatening to kick me out if I don't stump up the rent by Monday. The ring will cover some of it, maybe enough to get him off my back for a week if I can sell it for a decent price, but he'll be wanting the rest of the money soon and I can't afford to get fired. Besides, the whole episode with the ring makes me uneasy, and I'm not sure what I want to do about it right
now. Aside from freak out, obviously.
But, much as the thought of passing out, losing three hours and, oh yeah, somehow escaping two cops and then forgetting how I did it terrifies the hell out of me, the thought of being fired worries me more, so I force myself from the sofa again and shuffle to the mirror, and attempt to drag a brush through the tangled mess that is my hair. It takes me a full minute to admit that it's a lost cause, so I tie it back and focus instead on restoring some colour to my face, courtesy of No7's Stay Perfect range – although at this stage I'd settle for half-way human.
By the time that I admit that, too, is a lost cause and struggle into my waitressing uniform – a mid-length black skirt and white blouse, and flat black shoes that couldn't scream bland any louder if they tried, I've wasted the best part of half an hour. The car broke down a couple of months ago and I haven't had the money to fix it, but even on foot I should just about make it to the restaurant before my shift starts. I snatch up my bag and coat and hurry out of the door, pausing to double lock it behind me, and jog down the two flights of stairs.
Twenty-eight minutes later I swing open the door to The Glasshouse, the place I spend too many hours for not enough pay. Lloyd, the owner-cum-manager and my boss, fancies the place as minimalistic and stylist, but in reality it's just sterile, with too much glass and chrome, and not enough atmosphere. We'd been on the brink of closing six months back when Lloyd had struck it lucky and managed to hire the most gifted chef our little town has seen in at least a decade. We all know Brendon's too good for this place and is destined for bigger and better things, but for some reason I can't quite fathom, he's decided he likes it here – I know it can't be the pay – and continues to bring in diners from all over town. Lloyd and The Glasshouse will be in a world of trouble when he eventually leaves, but for now we're all enjoying the rewards of his talent.
Awakening (TalentBorn Book 1) Page 1
