NORTH BEACH, SAN FRANCISCO
CHAPTER ONE
I eyed the brunette in the sparkly underwear as she whipped her long hair and draped her tanned legs around the silver pole, sliding one stiletto-heeled foot up and down, up and down.
Her breasts, naked and swinging, were bigger than mine, but she was about the same size and weight. No stretch marks on her stomach or breasts, hips still slim. Childless. No thin white band on her ring finger. Single. Fake diamond studs. Not doing this for fun or to rebel against daddy. Fuchsia toenail polish. Definitely not from the Bay Area. Perfect white teeth and flawless skin. Not a crankster. No identifying tattoos.
She would do.
I slid three twenties under the strap of her G-string and told her to meet me in the private room at her break.
Waiting in the tiny, mirrored room, I rummaged around in my bag for a roach, but came up empty. Must have smoked it last night. At the bottom of my purse, my fingers brushed some loose shake so I licked them and stuck them back into my bag. I poked around until tiny green flecks stuck to the pads of my fingers, which I licked again. I was plucking a few stray flakes off my lipstick when she walked in, wiping tiny beads of sweat away from her temple with a small white towel.
She leaned back against the door and untied her short silky robe.
“Hey, honey. What’s your name?” she asked, fluffing her hair. My back was to her, but I didn’t take my eyes off her face in the mirror.
“Gia,” I said and smiled. Yes, she would do perfectly.
“I’m Desiree.” Sure you are. She sidled up to me, pressing her bare breast against my arm from behind, trailing her fingers down my lips as we watched ourselves in the floor-length mirror.
“It’s not what you think,” I said, gently pushing her away.
Ten minutes later we had a deal.
I slipped back into the night, ignoring the groups of men huddled on the neon sidewalks outside, smoking and cat calling everyone who looked like they might have a vagina—whether they were born that way or not.
CHAPTER TWO
The previous week ...
The throbbing head pain keeping time with my heartbeat told me last night had been a doozy. Even if I didn’t remember any of it.
Without opening my eyes, I knew it was time to get up because I could hear the noisy gurgling of my Nespresso in the kitchen. The espresso machine was programmed to kick on at two every afternoon so that when I rolled out of bed hot coffee would be waiting. It was a rough life.
I stretched and yawned and then froze at the sound of clanging in my kitchen. As I yanked the covers up over my naked breasts and reached under my huge stack of pillows for my gun, a vague memory surfaced — a cute face, tight ass, and deft hands. I’d brought some guy home from the bar last night. I groaned. He should’ve been long gone. I put the gun back. If he was banging pots and pans around in the kitchen, he probably wasn’t a serial killer.
A curly-haired head peeked around the doorframe. “Hey, Gia. You hungry? It’ll be ready in a jiffy.”
I stared until his head withdrew. He whistled as he walked back to the kitchen. Jiffy? Whistling? That did it. This guy was way too polite and chipper to be my type. I closed my eyes trying to piece together what had happened the night before. I vaguely remembered Scott, the bartender at Anarchy, refusing to fill my glass again despite me wadding up hundred dollar bills and throwing them at him. How much had I had to drink? It must have been a lot because Scott had never cut me off before. The last thing I remembered was stomping off to find someone else to order my booze for me.
I must have found the guy who was now in my kitchen.
He seemed harmless. I shrugged on my kimono and tried to avoid looking into the mirrored doors on my closet as I walked past, but still managed to get a glimpse of a green-silk-robe-wearing witch with wild hair. I stopped in the bathroom to splash some water on my face, again avoiding the mirror. Relief washed over me when I spotted a neatly tied up condom in the metal trashcan. Time to face my houseguest.
I leaned on the doorframe leading into my small kitchen. The guy was putting slices of sourdough bread in my toaster. Eggs and milk were on the counter. Butter was sizzling in a frying pan on the stove. The guy was cute. But none of that mattered. I cleared my throat. He looked up and smiled.
“Listen ...” I closed my eyes for a second. “I’m sure you’re really sweet. But you have to leave now.”
When I opened my eyes, his smile faded. I tried again. “I drank a lot last night. I don’t remember much but I do know that I probably did some things I shouldn’t have and it’s better if you leave. Now.”
“Hey, I’m a feminist,” he said, holding his palms out. “I don’t take advantage of drunk women. If anything, you talked me into it. I kept saying it probably wasn’t a good idea, but you insisted otherwise. You practically dragged me back here.”
I cringed. He was probably right. But I still needed to get rid of this nameless, chivalrous stranger.
“Like I said,” I began. “You seem like a really nice guy. But you need to go.”
“No problem.” He didn’t seem angry, only disappointed. For a brief second I felt a twinge of guilt, but quickly dismissed it. I needed to get this stranger out of my house immediately. Before I freaked out.
He grabbed a leather jacket off my dining room table. I noticed an empty wine bottle and two glasses on the table along with what looked like the remains of a pumpkin pie. Guess I had brought the party back here.
When I finally heard the door click closed, I sunk onto the chair on my balcony with a cup of espresso and a pack of Dunhills. I felt another stab of guilt remembering the guy’s face when I told him to leave. I consoled myself with the thought that he was too nice and therefore too good for me, anyway. I’d actually probably done him a favor by booting him out before he started to really like me.
I spent at least an hour sitting on my balcony, feet up on the rail in my fuzzy slippers, watching the fog burn off the bay until the Golden Gate Bridge came into view and beyond that the Marin headlands. If I looked over my shoulder, I could see the new span of the Bay Bridge stretching across the Bay, gleaming in the sunlight.
It looked like a good day to take my Ferrari out on the open road. It was one of those days where I needed to drive as fast as I could for as long as I could.
DID YOU LIKE BLESSED ARE THE PEACEMAKERS?
REVIEWS ARE THE LIFEBLOOD of this author business. Reviews, honest reviews, mean the world to me. They don’t have to be fancy, either. Nobody is critiquing you on your review. And they don’t always have to be five-star, either. What matters is that people are reading and have opinions on my books. I am a fairly new writer and don’t have the marketing push that many other writers do that gets their books out in front of other readers.
What I do have is you.
I am unbelievably lucky to have very passionate and loyal readers who take the time to let me know what they think of my books (and sometimes even where they think I could improve).
If you liked this book, I would be extremely grateful if you could take a few minutes out of your day to leave a review. As I said, it doesn’t need to be long or involved, anything will help. Thank you!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would not have had the confidence to put this book out without the keen insight and feedback from several people, including Sarah Hanley, Sharon Long, John Bychowski, Erin Alford, Liz Cronk, Doug Cronk, Emily Goehner, Taloo Carrillo, Mimi Ryan and Anissa Kennedy! Thank you!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
KRISTI BELCAMINO IS a Macavity, Barry, and Anthony Award-nominated author, a newspaper cops reporter, and an Italian mama who makes a tasty biscotti. As an award-winning crime reporter at newspapers in California, she flew over Big Sur in an FA-18 jet with the Blue Angels, raced a Dodge Viper at Laguna Seca and watched autopsies.
Her books feature strong, fierce, and independent women facing unspeakable evil in order to seek justice for those unable to do so themselves.
Belcamino has written and reported about many high-profile cases including the Laci Peterson murder and Chandra Levy’s disappearance. She has appeared on Inside Edition and her work has appeared in the New York Times, Writer’s Digest, Miami Herald, San Jose Mercury News, and Chicago Tribune. Kristi now works part-time as a police reporter at the St. Paul Pioneer Press. She lives in Minneapolis with her husband and her two fierce daughters.
Find out more at http://www.kristibelcamino.com. Find her on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/kristibelcaminowriter/ or on Twitter @KristiBelcamino. Sign up for her VIP Reader Group here and get a free novella. Follow her on BOOKBUB.
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