BB’s memoir, 44 Chapters About 4 Men, and the spin-off 44 Chapters novels are being adapted into a steamy, female-centered dramedy series for Netflix called Sex/Life. Coming late 2020.
The Rain Trilogy is her first work of fiction. The idea, fittingly, came to her in a dream.
If that sounds like the kind of person you want to go around being friends with, then by all means, feel free to drop her a line. You can find her procrastinating at all of the following places:
E-mail: [email protected]
Website: www.authorbbeaston.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/bbeaston
Instagram: www.instagram.com/author.bb.easton
Twitter: www.twitter.com/bb_easton
Pinterest: www.pinterest.com/artbyeaston
Goodreads: https://goo.gl/4hiwiR
BookBub: www.bookbub.com/authors/bb-easton
Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/bbeaston
Selling signed books and original art on Etsy: www.etsy.com/shop/artbyeaston
Giving stuff away in her #TeamBB Facebook group: www.facebook.com/groups/BBEaston
And giving away a free e-book from one of her author friends each month in her newsletter: www.artbyeaston.com/subscribe
THE DEAL
* * *
A dark romance short story
ALEATHA ROMIG
ONE
“…ONE MORE STEP would mean certain death.”
My blue eyes opened wide. Goose bumps prickled my skin, and my stomach churned with the wine I’d recently consumed.
I reached for the back of the chair, my legs unsteady, and contemplated my next move as past uncertainties came to sudden light.
Was I facing my new life, or was I doomed to die?
TWO
Earlier
SUCH A VAGUE time frame—earlier.
An hour?
A week?
A month?
How far back would I need to go to see clues or traps that had been laid, leading to this undeniable precipice in my life?
How could I determine what was wrong or right?
Was correctness something one learned in infancy or perhaps early childhood?
Who were the teachers?
What if the teachers who imparted wisdom to a young mind were deceitful in their mission?
As a young girl, my family would vacation along the sandy white beaches of Florida’s west coast. My not-much-older brother and I would build sandcastles, complete with towers and moats, running to and from the shore to collect buckets of water before our hard work seeped into the sand, leaving our moat less of a water deterrent and more of a wet sand trap.
For years we ran into the warm, salty water without hesitation, and then one day while turning channels on our television in the North Carolina mountains, we heard the daunting music and watched as a giant shark maliciously hunted three men on a boat that was too small.
The next vacation, the two of us stood, hand in hand, peering out over the once-fun crystal-blue water, certain that within its depths a predator lurked. It was then that our mother pointed to the buoys spaced what seemed like yards apart, creating a straight line. We’d seen them before but never thought much about them.
“What you can’t see,” she said as she pointed from one to the other, connecting the dots, “are the nets beneath the water. Big nets. They keep the sharks away.”
“But,” my brother—the older and wiser one—said, “there have been dolphins on this side.”
“Yes,” she replied, “they can jump over. Sharks can’t.”
Suddenly, the water was again welcoming.
It wasn’t until years later when we were much better swimmers that we learned of her deceit. The water was warm as we raced to the sandbar and beyond. Our finish line was the mysterious buoys in the distance.
Seconds ahead of me, Kyle’s hand reached the white metal of the buoy.
I too reached out, my breathing labored as we both laughed until we didn’t…the same thought occurring in each of our minds simultaneously.
Our feet kicked, keeping us afloat as we circled. The floating object was attached to a chain with large links. In the clear gulf water, we saw the large anchor below. What we didn’t see was the net.
It didn’t exist.
When confronted, our mother claimed to not recall telling us such a far-fetched tale.
That was the way it was with false truths—they were difficult to remember and maintain unless you lived them day in and day out.
So where to begin this story…the day I was adopted into a family that I was raised to believe was my own, when my family was tragically lost, or maybe the day I learned that they weren’t my family at all? Or perhaps that was history, and I should start with more recent events…
THREE
Earlier in the evening
TOURISTS SIPPED COLORFUL drinks and swayed to the sound of jazz as white lights twinkled above the courtyard. This wasn’t my scene. I was only here because of the man across the table from me. He wasn’t my date or even my friend but my business partner. There was a time we may have been friends, but that was before. Ross Underwood and I met our junior year at the University of Pittsburgh, both majoring in English literature. We believed in the promise for our future.
Handsome and determined, Ross was the kind of guy who caught every woman’s eye. In our department, the two of us were constantly at odds, both vying for valedictorian. Ross was going to be a famous editor, sought after by a big New York publisher. Me, my plans included writing. I walked into libraries and bookstores, inhaling the scent of paper and books, imagining my name upon the covers. I didn’t want to be just present on a shelf near the back of the store but front and center on the round table near the entry, showcased for the world to see.
It seemed that as much as Ross and I claimed our differences, we shared the same dream—New York. We weren’t alone; it was also the goal of every other literature major in the country.
Finally graduated and still living in Pittsburgh, Ross and I came to the conclusion that success could be best met if we combined our strengths.
It should be said that at no time were either of us romantically interested in one another. It wasn’t that Ross wasn’t handsome—he was—or that I wasn’t what some consider pretty, I was. It was that Ross had a problem. There were other women I knew who made the mistake of dating him. Ross was many things when it came to business—determined, intelligent, and resourceful.
As a boyfriend, he was shit.
Perhaps due to his infidelity in relationships, I shouldn’t have trusted him as a business partner. Then again, he was honest about his lack of monogamy, truthful not only with me but also with each woman he dated.
His honesty didn’t matter. Each woman went into the relationship with stars in her eyes, determined to be the one to change his ways.
Ross wasn’t going to change.
He would conquer the world and reach incredible heights in business, not in a personal relationship. The only thing he was true to was securing success. In that I believed.
Sipping a hurricane cocktail as Ross rambled on about the possibility of our newest creation, my mind was on anyone and anything except him. The air was sweltering as more bodies made their way into the courtyard. The tall walls surrounding us on all sides obstructed any possibility of a breeze as the live band played their New Orleans sound.
It wasn’t that I didn’t care about what Ross was saying. I did. It was that we’d picked at this subject to death. Over and over we’d worked. For months at home, hours on the airplane…I was done.
The premise we’d created brought our knowledge and skills to the common writer for a cost. The world of big publishing houses was on life support, the ice caps melting and forests burning. Even some of the biggest names in fiction were turning their backs on the very publishers who years and decades ago had made them household names. The news outlets were bubbling with stories as renowned authors secured multimillion-dol
lar deals, working directly with the biggest online distributor of—well, everything. Self-publishing was on the rise in exponential terms, and Ross and I were poised to break into that market.
Our editing program would revolutionize self-publishing. It was unlike any other available…
I swirled the straw in the last few sips of the peach-colored liquid. The ice cubes rattled as Ross’s monologue reached its crescendo, and my body swayed to the alluring sound of jazz.
“…this could be it, our answer.” Ross reached across the table. “Emma, are you even listening?”
“Yes, and I’ve heard it all…” a million times. I didn’t say the last part. “Save it for this mysterious Mr. Ramses.” I shivered as the name left my lips—Everett Ramses. Maybe it wasn’t his name that caused my reaction but just being in New Orleans where ghost stories abounded, or perhaps it was the alcohol coursing through my bloodstream minus food I should have eaten.
“Em,” Ross said, “the man has more capital than you or I could ever imagine.”
“I looked him up—researched him,” I said, voicing a concern I’d been harboring. “There’s nothing—no Wikipedia, LinkedIn, or website. Christ…” my voice rose over the low trumpet solo. “…he doesn’t even have a Twitter.”
“He’s private.”
“Is he old? Ramses was an Egyptian king…right?”
Ross shrugged. “We’re not in Egypt and they called them pharaohs. Besides, he’s not that old.”
My head shook. “Then why is he so secretive? Is he a criminal?”
Ross sat back and stretched his arms over the small table. “I don’t give a rat’s ass where his money comes from. He reached out to me.”
The whole thing gave me the creeps. I looked at my watch, seeing that it was after nine p.m. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know, but when someone like Mr. Ramses makes an appointment, we’re damn well waiting.”
“Fine,” I said, standing, my balance a bit off. “I need to order something to eat, or I won’t make this meeting.”
From the look on Ross’s face, he was getting annoyed with me. I didn’t care. I was annoyed too. The flight, including a two-hour layover, and a mix-up at the hotel were only a few of my day’s highlights. Steadying my footing and wishing I’d not worn a fitted white sleeveless top that showed a small strip of my midriff, a long flowing skirt, and high-heeled sleek sandals, but instead something more practical, I pushed between bodies, making my way to the bar near the rear of the courtyard.
Placing a food order was my immediate goal.
My head buzzed with the sounds as I did my best to avoid the growing number of patrons.
“Excuse me…pardon me.”
What legitimate businessman would ask to meet in the courtyard of a dark bar off Canal Street in the French Quarter?
I wedged my way through up to the bar. “Hey,” I yelled to one of the bartenders.
“Just a minute.”
Turning, my hand upon the sticky surface, I waited. Blowing my bangs away from my face in the sweltering humidity, I imagined a cool bath back at the hotel. My attention went to the crowd as my skin prickled with that odd sensation of being watched, of wanting to see a familiar face while all the time not wanting to see one.
This was my first trip to New Orleans—other than recently learning this city was where I was born.
I wasn’t the daughter of Oliver and Marcella O’Brien. It was after their passing and that of my only brother that I learned I’d been adopted—we both had. It was a tremendous jolt to not only lose your parents and sibling, but to learn they were never truly your family.
That didn’t mean they hadn’t done a good job of raising me and making me feel a part of a family. I only wish they’d told me when I was younger.
Instead of the parentage I’d been led to believe I had, I was in reality the daughter of a woman from New Orleans. Her name was Jezebel North—and from what I’d learned, the name fit. The birth certificate I was shown didn’t list a name in the space for father. From what I’d pieced together, the woman who gave birth to me worked in the French Quarter at a private club that was frequented by the dark, dangerous, and powerful people of Louisiana.
To read the speculative tales from thirty years ago, you’d believe in the crime stories of lore.
Jezebel disappeared after giving birth and taking me to the fire station.
The O’Briens raised me in Ashville, within the mountains of North Carolina.
According to those storytellers, New Orleans had changed hands since the men my mother knew were in power. I wasn’t referring to elected officials but the men who took power by force.
To be honest, the story seemed too far-fetched. There were few people in whom I’d confided this information. I turned back to the table, seeing Ross’s blond hair.
He was one who knew.
With a shiver, I turned back to the crowd.
From the side of the courtyard, leaning against a stone archway, a strikingly handsome tall man with a dark gaze stared unblinkingly my direction. I turned from side to side, wondering if I was truly who he was looking at.
With broad shoulders that tugged at the seams of his white shirt, he remained still, a statue immune to the influx of patrons. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up near his elbows, revealing powerful forearms. The top buttons were undone, showing a thick neck. His skin was dark, either tanned from Louisiana sun or perhaps his natural pigment. His dark hair was longer than short and shorter than long. It was combed back in soft waves. Unlike most of the men wearing shorts or blue jeans, this man’s long legs were covered with gray dress pants, as if he’d made his way from the business district directly to the happenings of the French Quarter.
“Yeah?” a voice came from the bar.
I spun back, my heartbeat unexpectedly racing and my lips dry. “I’d like to order some food.”
The bartender nodded, reaching for a pad of paper.
“I’d like an order of—”
Two large tanned hands and muscular forearms came to either side of me, gripping the bar and caging me. I was trapped between the sticky surface and a solid chest. Heat rose from the ground upward, warming my already-heated skin. The deep voice vibrated his chest as his timbre rumbled through me.
“The lady is mistaken. She’s dining with me.”
FOUR
I DIDN’T NEED visual confirmation that the owner of the deep voice was the man from moments ago, the one near the archway. I felt him around me—his presence—as well as within me, confirmed by the way my pulse raced.
I spun within the cage he’d created with his muscular arms.
This man, the one I didn’t know, surrounded me, his height dwarfing me and his body electrifying me. The spicy aroma of his cologne mixed with the whiskey on his breath created a concoction that blended perfectly with the hurricane’s rum in my system.
He was so close that at first, my eyes met his broad chest. Slowly, I brought my chin higher and higher. His wide neck came into view as his Adam’s apple bobbed. Finally, my gaze met his. “I believe you have the wrong—”
The rest of my sentence disappeared into the black hole of his stare.
Such as a true region in space exhibiting gravitational acceleration so strong that nothing can escape from it, I felt myself drawn into the depth of his nearly black eyes. In the crowded courtyard filled with stagnantly hot, humid New Orleans air, a chill covered my skin, bringing goose bumps to life and drawing my nipples taut.
Why hadn’t I worn an outfit with a bra?
What would it feel like to fall into this mountain of a man?
Just another inch forward and my breasts and his chest would collide.
“Our table is waiting, Emma.”
Releasing his grip of the bar, the man’s large hand came to the small of my back.
My forehead furrowed as I tried to make sense of what made no sense. His touch seemed too intimate and his presumption without merit. “Perhaps I’m the
wrong Emma?”
He’d now directed me away from the bar. In his presence, there was no pushing or shoving to get around bodies of other patrons. Instead, the sea of people parted as we walked toward the archway where I’d first seen him.
“No.” His deep voice resonated beyond the melancholy music, twisting my insides.
Once out of the courtyard, we entered a dimly lit hallway with flame-like sconces upon the walls. I stopped. “This is ridiculous. I’m not leaving here with you. I don’t know you.”
His lips quirked as if he found my opposition amusing. “You’re quite right, Miss North. We aren’t leaving. The owner has graciously provided a private dining room for our enjoyment. And soon we will be well acquainted.”
North.
North was not my last name. It was Jezebel’s, the woman I’d recently learned gave birth to me.
My neck stiffened. “Sir, you have the wrong Emma. My name is Emma O’Brien.”
His strikingly handsome face tilted. “My mistake. I was made aware of the change.”
My head shook. “Change? O’Brien isn’t a change.” I took a step back. “Who are you?”
He reached for my hand, turning my knuckles upward and bending gallantly at the waist, his firm lips brushing over the surface of my skin. Like a match to flint, my hand tingled with the heat brought by his touch. “Please, Emma, call me Rett.”
I retrieved my hand. “Rett, your attention is flattering, but I really must go. My friend is waiting.”
“No, my dear, Mr. Underwood has gone.” He shrugged. “Presumably back to the hotel. Of that I can’t be certain. He found…shall we say, a friend?”
My head moved from side to side as I peered over my shoulder toward the courtyard. Down the empty hallway, the music filtered our way as the growing crowd obstructed my view of where Ross had been seated. “He left me?” I turned back to Rett. “Ross wouldn’t leave. We had a business meeting.”
One More Step Page 52
