by Shandi Boyes
Lady In Waiting
Shandi Boyes
Edited by
Mountains Wanted Publishing
Illustrated by
Oh So Novel
Copyright
Copyright © 2019 by Shandi Boyes
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Editing: Mountains Wanted Publishing
Proofreading: Carolyn Wallace
Cover: Oh So Novel
Dedication
To the crazy girl.
You know who you are!
Shandi xx
Contents
Also by Shandi Boyes
Title
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Sample Chapter of Enigma of Life
Acknowledgments
Also by Shandi Boyes
Also by Shandi Boyes
Enigma Series - Steamy Contemporary Romance
Enigma of Life - (Isaac)
Unraveling an Enigma - (Isaac)
Enigma: The Mystery Unmasked - (Isaac)
Enigma: The Final Chapter - (Isaac)
Beneath the Secrets - (Hugo - Part 1)
Beneath the Sheets - (Hugo Conclusion)
Spy Thy Neighbor (Hunter - standalone)
The Opposite Effect - (Brax)
I Married a Mob Boss - (Rico - Nikolai’s Brother)
Second Shot (Hawke’s Story)
The Way We Are (Ryan Pt 1)
The Way We Were (Ryan Pt 2)
Sugar and Spice (Cormack)
Perception Series - New Adult Romance
Perception of Life - (Noah & Emily)
Reality of Life - (Conclusion of Noah & Emily)
Fight of Life - (Jacob - standalone)
Player of Life - (Nick - standalone)
Beats of Life - (Slater - standalone)
Wrapped Up With Rise Up (Novella)
Bound Series - Steamy Romance & slight BDSM
Chains (Marcus and Cleo)
Links (Marcus and Cleo)
Bound (Marcus and Cleo)
Restrained (Marcus and Cleo)
Psycho (Dexter)
Russian Mob Chronicles
Nikolai: A Mafia Prince Romance
Nikolai: Taking Back What’s Mine
Nikolai: What’s Left of Me
Infinite Time Trilogy
Lady in Waiting
Man in Queue
Couple on Hold
COMING SOON:
Nikolai 4. . . (shh it’s a secret).
Skitzo (Dexter 2).
Prologue
A roaring buzz draws me back to consciousness. The thrumming of my heart in my ears is painful and raw—as if I am submerged in three thousand feet of water. The same can be said for my chest. It feels like an elephant is sitting there, squeezing the air out of my lungs as effectively as they were robbed of oxygen earlier tonight.
My mouth moves as I attempt to speak, but not a hum escapes my lips. I feel woozy and frail, like I haven't slept in a week. Pain scorches my veins when I slowly crack open my eyes. The sky is pitch black. Even the moonlight has withered away. I wish it were too dark to see anything because I would sell my soul to the devil not to see this.
“Luca,” I croak out in a sob, my broken heart resonating in my tone.
He doesn't respond. He remains motionless in the driver's seat of his beloved Jeep Wrangler soft-top. It was a gift from his father on his sixteenth birthday. He loves it more than anything—except me. He has stated that many times the past three years. That is why the circumstances of our night are so hard for me to understand. This isn't Luca. The man sitting lifeless next to me isn't Luca.
He is the goofball. Our school’s star quarterback. My soulmate.
I squeeze his hand that is still clutching mine. It takes all my strength to give him the three squeeze routine we do every time we silently declare our love for one another. I (squeeze) love (squeeze) you (squeeze).
Usually, he’d squeeze my hand back four times, the “too” at the end of his declaration requiring an additional squeeze. This time, he doesn’t respond. His hand stays perfectly still.
“Luca, please.”
My appeal is in utter desperation. The smell, the dark pools of blood staining his light gray t-shirt, and his head hanging low brings our night smashing back into me. We fought. That isn’t unusual; we are worse than an old married couple. We bicker over things not worth fighting about because we are as stubborn as each other. My father has often predicted we would either smother each other to death or murder each other in a violent act of hatred.
Luca went for the latter.
He couldn’t see past his pain, past the disbelief surrounding him.
He lost his faith in me.
“I’m so sorry, baby. So very sorry. I should have tried harder. I should have kept plugging away until everyone saw the real you.” I should have been honest with you from the very beginning.
I weave my fingers through Luca’s dark hair, stained with sweat, before tracking them down his jaw. Our impact with the tree trunk stole the last of our light, so I am unable to see his glistening green irises. It is probably for the best. I prefer the memories in my head than the image presented before me now.
“You will always have my support, Luca. Always.” My tone holds the same conviction as it did leading up to our crash.
My lips quiver when I lean across the mangled wreckage separating us to place a final kiss on Luca’s cheek. “I promised to love you until my final breath. I’ll kept my promise. Fly free, baby; your secret is safe with me.”
With a majority of the damage on Luca’s half of the car, I can exit the passenger seat without any hindrance. Every step I take away from the wreckage is done with an immense amount of pain. Although I am covered with cuts and bruises, the majority of my pain centers around my heart. It is broken. Shattered. Never to be repaired.
My brain feels seconds from exploding, but I still dive for the bushes edging the roadside when sirens break through my pulse shrilling in my ears. I should be aiding in their endeavor to help Luca, but if I do that, I can’t keep the promise I made to Luca over three years ago. I let him down tonight. It will never happen again.
When bright lights break over the horizon, I thoughtlessly crank my neck backward. It is a stupid thing for me to do. The cracked windscreen and twisted metal of Luca's Jeep send me scampering backward until I land on my ass with a thud. First responders rush to his crumpled car, praying there are survivors amongst the debris of shattered glass and bloodstained metal.
Their prayers are in vain. There are no survivors.
Luca isn’t the only one who lost his life tonight. I did as well.
Chapter One
Three years later.
. .
Bright pink feathers fall to my feet as I dart offstage. My corset covers the risqué parts of my body, but with the minuscule folds in my stomach sitting a mere inch under my chest, I can’t suck in an entire breath.
I want to say my mad dash off the stage is because I want to shred this corset off my body, but, unfortunately, that isn’t the case. Just like three years ago, the vibe tonight is off. The clients at Substanz still exude excitement; the dancers are glammed to within an inch of recognition, and Tarren’s new routine is out of this world, but no matter how hard I strive to ignore the niggle warning me that something isn’t right, it won’t budge. It is as strong as the strips of leather pushing my lungs into my throat.
“Boisterous crowd tonight.” Dwain unravels the feather boa from my neck before twirling me away from him. His big, strong hands make quick work of the threads holding my lungs hostage. “Never seen you so eager to get offstage before. What’s the deal?”
I wait for him to yank out the last strip from the back-breaking outfit before spinning around to face him. Since he is nearly seven feet tall, my neck strains to peer into his almost black eyes. Dwain is a bouncer at Substanz Cabaret Club. He is what the dancers and I call a perfect "3B”: big, beautiful, and black. He started at Substanz around the same time as me, going on three years now. He is in his late twenties and has not an ounce of hair on his head, but he has all his teeth.
Dwain is adamant we add on the last reference. For some reason, a mouth full of chompers is more important to him than chiseled cheeks and a strong, defined jawbone. It's fortunate for him he has all three. His molten smirk sends the girls into a tailspin, but not one has taken him home. The girth of his fingers would snap some of the dancers in half, so imagine the massacre other regions of his body would incite?
“Rae? You still with me?” Dwain asks, breaking me from my ruminations.
I halfheartedly nod. “Yeah, sorry. Got a little carried away by my thoughts.”
His deep murmur rumbles through my chest. He knows what I’m thinking without a word seeping from my lips. This is a prime example of why I’ll never jump aboard the Dwain snap them while they’re sleeping Train. He knows me too well.
Nobody knows me. The cabaret dancer who shakes her ass in a seedy club is a myth, a metaphor, a girl you’d never take home to visit your parents. She isn’t the real me. She is the shield I use to keep myself safe—to keep myself sane. If I don’t occupy my thoughts, my mind wanders. A nomadic mind never ends well.
I’ve changed a lot the past three years. At times, I barely recognize myself. But Dwain sees past my glittery chest, big eyes that promise trouble, and mega-watt smile. He has a gift for reading people for who they are—not how they present themselves. He reminds me a lot of my daddy, just in a younger, more ravishing, darker-skin version.
My theory is proven dead accurate when Dwain mutters, "You can talk to them, you know? No matter how bad things are, you’ll always be their little Rae of sunshine. It's a parents’ job to view their children through rose-colored glasses."
I roll my eyes before pushing off my feet. “Not happening, Dwain. As far as my parents are concerned, I’m on the final stretch of a paid scholarship, and you’re the dorky hall monitor who saves my virtue every weekend by forcing me to study instead of attending frat parties.” They also believe Luca died an honorable man, and I intend for it to stay that way.
Dwain's hefty chuckle is barely heard over the jazz blaring from the speakers above our heads as he follows me through the underbelly of Substanz. This humble abode was once my place of solace. It was the place I used to escape my worries in a positive, somewhat glamorous way.
Now, it feels sleazy and grimy.
Its revamped aura is accredited to the new owner who flew in on his broomstick with a vision of greatness. Unfortunately, a majority of his ideas depended on the dancers taking off their clothes.
Cabaret performances ooze sex appeal, but Jayce doesn't want glitzy routines that dazzle the mind and spirit. He wants skin, boobs, and bump and grinds that stimulate the areas between a man’s legs instead of the ones between his ears.
Within six months of Jayce taking over the helm, Substanz went from a family-friendly environment to the dancers being shunned on the street by disgruntled single women who cite our "unachievable standards" as the reason they can't get a date. Their legs haven't seen a razor since the nineties, but Jayce's unbendable rules of the dancers not gaining more than four pounds after being hired are to blame for everything.
With a grumble about ill-informed people, I dash for the curtains separating backstage from the dressing rooms. Halfway through, the quickest flash of a smirk stops both my heart and my feet. A handsome man with wisps of blond hair sticking out of a low-hanging cap stands at the end of the corridor. He is in a restricted area—an area reserved for the staff of Substanz.
I lift my eyes to Dwain, who has also spotted the stranger. Unlike me, he isn’t taking in the man’s cut jawline, tempting body, and sultry smirk with agitated excitement. He looks concerned. I’d even go as far as saying frazzled.
The unease pumping out of him sends my pulse racing. “What is he doing back here?”
I'm not worried about my safety. Dwain could snap Hercules in half without breaking a sweat. I'm concerned about what the stranger's sneaky glances are doing to my insides. My stomach is flipping more now than it did during my gymnastic routines in high school. I haven't felt like this in years. . . not since I was introduced to a thirteen-year-old Luca.
"I don't know." Dwain's deep timbre relays his eagerness to find out. "Jayce mentioned something about foreign investors earlier this week. What do you think? Investing his inheritance in a seedy club to combat his mommy issues? Or are his preppy boy features hiding a tiny wiener?"
Dwain’s snappy comment strips the worry from my gut, allowing the butterflies inside to take flight without hindrance. I should have realized he isn't scared. Nothing scares Dwain—not even the furious stink eye of my little sister, Raquel.
My eyes shift from Dwain to the mysterious stranger when the heat of his gaze captures my attention. With his head slanted to the side, the man peers at me from beneath the brim of his cap in the same manner he did earlier tonight. He isn’t the least bit deterred by Dwain’s rapidly forming anger.
He should be—very much so. I blame him for nearly stumbling three times on stage tonight. Although I couldn’t see his eyes, his all-encompassing glare worked my inside muscles as effectively as my outside ones when I strutted across the stage. Half of his god-crafted features were hidden from my view, but that didn’t leash my curiosity in the slightest.
His mysteriousness adds to his appeal, giving him a you may never get out of this alive vibe. It was so invigorating, I performed my routine on half of the stage: his half. That's why I darted off as I did. My lungs were demanding oxygen, but not all their deprivation was from my air-pinching corset. Most of it rested on the unnamed gentleman.
If only I could see his eyes, then I'd know which team he belongs to. A person's eyes are the gateway to their soul. They reveal a person’s heart, spirit, and the reason they seek solace in sordid locations. Not all clients at Substanz come to get their rocks off. Some are just lonely. That is how I stumbled upon my line of work almost three years ago.
“Hmm.” Dwain’s rumble—as deep as Earl Brown’s murmuring and as scrumptious as Garth Brook singing a love song—returns my focus to him. “Remember Celeste’s side business?”
“No way. . . Do you think?” My voice is higher than my brows.
For almost two months, Celeste offered additional "services" for clients at Substanz. When Jayce caught wind of her illegal operation, he didn't fire her as expected; he wanted in on her scheme. The boutique massage parlor a few miles from Substanz has expanded to a six-figure entity the past three months. They don't relieve any of their clients' strains. . . unless they're sexual kinks.
“I think your radar is a little askew tonight, Dwain.
He doesn’t need help to relieve tension. Why shell out funds for something he can get for free?”
Dwain’s eyes drop to mine. “So if he asked you on a date right now, you’d accept?”
“I didn’t say that—”
"Uh-huh. My point exactly," Dwain interrupts. "I saw him gawking at you all night like you were the only girl on stage. There were over thirty dancers vying for his attention. His eyes never left you. He wants it." He rubs his hands together like a rhubarb pie is sitting in front of him. "He wants it soooo bad, he’s willing to pay for the privilege.”
The instant I spot his furling lips, I recognize his game plan. "This isn't a good idea. He won't take kindly to being swindled." The worry in my voice reflects the country twang I've struggled to conceal the past three years.
“He can’t be swindled if he has no intention of cracking open his wallet. If he has merely mistaken backstage as an exit, he’ll go on his merry way when I point him in the right direction. But if he thinks Substanz is an escort service, he’ll pay for his stupidity before I toss his ass to the curb.”
Dwain lowers his eyes to mine. They have the same effervescent edge they always have, just with a more cunning, bloodthirsty glow. “What do you say, Rae-Rae? Fifty-fifty?”
