Shaken: An Interracial Second Chance Romance (L.A. Nights Book 3)

by Sylvie Fox

  Los Angeles, California

  ALSO BY SYLVIE FOX

  Unlikely (L.A. Nights Series)

  Impasse (L.A. Nights Series)

  Don’t Judge Me (Judgment Series)

  The Good Enough Husband

  Qualified Immunity (Casey Cort Series)

  Under Color of Law (Casey Cort Series)

  In Plain Sight (Casey Cort Series)

  This edition published by

  Penner Media Group, LLC

  Post Office Box 57914

  Los Angeles, California 91413

  www.pennermedia.com

  Copyright © 2015 by Sylvie Fox

  eISBN 13: 978-1-940811-14-7

  ISBN 13: 978-1-940811-15-4

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Cover Designer: Regina Wamba, Mae I Design

  Cover images © Thinkstock

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  The Nights Are Hotter in Los Angeles

  Check out the rest of the L.A. Nights Series

  Shaken an L.A Nights Romance Book Three

  Jessie Morales chose her career over love five years ago. Now she’s finally seeing her hard choices pay off. A possible promotion to the KESP news desk is in the works. Except, right after her boss gives her the good news—an earthquake hits, leaving her trapped in an elevator facing the demons from her past.

  LAPD officer Cameron Becker is still recovering from the aftershocks of the earthquake when his estranged wife calls—panicked and trapped. He doesn’t hesitate to rush to her rescue. He lost her once. He can’t lose her again.

  Yet, when the physical danger has passed, unforgotten longing rises to the surface. He’d made a solemn vow on their wedding day: Once mine, always mine. But Jessie’s not convinced. The fallout from their first breakup nearly broke her—she can’t risk the devastation a second time.

  With both their careers on the line, both of their families determined to keep them apart, and the unresolved betrayals from the past, can Cameron convince Jessie to take a risk when fate offers them a second chance?

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  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

  Epilogue

  About Sylvie Fox

  Also Available

  Chapter One

  “Soy Yesenia Morales. Por KESP, buenas noches y cuídense.”

  The camera’s red light winked off. At the floor director’s signal, Yesenia pulled out her earpiece and allowed her cheek muscles to relax for the first time in a half hour. The rousing Norteña music accompanying the commercial break was in sharp counterpoint to the uncertainty spreading from her chest to her limbs.

  This was her last broadcast as temporary weeknight news anchor. Come Monday, Yolanda Salcedo was back from maternity leave. Unless Yesenia did something to kickstart her career, next week she’d be demoted to her regular weekend floating anchor position.

  The last time she’d been on the edge of career implosion, she’d saved herself by busting that city-wide cockfighting ring wide open. But lightning didn’t strike twice.

  Following the beckoning wave from her director, she stood and pulled at the fitted hot pink suit chafing around her breasts and hips. She had to work her way out of local Spanish language news to someplace where the women anchors weren’t gussied up like department store mannequins.

  When the red light indicated they were back on the air, Hector’s arm slipped around her waist. She did the same, pretending to chat and laugh as they walked off the set.

  “And we’re out,” the floor director called. She and Hector disengaged like the other had cooties. His shellacked hair and peach pancake makeup said one thing to her: dinosaur. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Hector García. He was a lovely old man from the Tom Brokaw reporting era, respectable, kind, honest. But he didn’t get the TMZ tabloid world journalism had become. As far as she could figure, they only kept Hector around to hold on to viewers from her mother’s generation.

  She stalked to her desk, just another gray pressed wood rectangle in the cubicle farm of the newsroom, waving away the shouted invitations for Friday night drinks.

  She sat at her cubicle only long enough to pack her bag and pull off the stilettos she had to wear now that the anchor desk was out. The station brass had replaced it with a Plexiglas stand no wider than a barstool. Gone were the days where she could hide jeans and sheepskin boots under a pressed wood desk. Yesenia stretched her cramped toes and massaged her aching foot after she eased the three inch pumps from one foot, then the other. She held back her groan of relief.

  As decreed from up high, her whole body from head to toe was on display. But ratings were up, and that was good for everyone, from station owner on down to a lowly anchor. Viewers were all her bosses cared about these days. And if a little exploitation was what it took to get eyeballs on screens, then so be it.

  Yesenia closed her eyes and visualized a weekend spent horizontal. Away from the anchor desk, she planned to fall into bed, and get up only when her mother summoned. Mascara glued her tired eyes together, making them hard to open. Time to get home and get the clown-like goo off. She could only hope the obligatory family dinner this week was Sunday instead of Saturday so she could rest up for whatever her mother and sister planned to throw at her.

  Stapled packets of half researched stories littered her desk. One by one she shoved papers into her purse. The last stack was personal and caused her stomach to do a flip-flop. With shaking hands, she cursed her mother, the Catholic Church, and Cameron Becker; three factors that had kept her married but separated, when she should probably be divorced.

  A Sale and Purchase agreement for her Ogden Drive apartment stared back at her. The building’s landlord was getting out of the rental business, converting the apartments in her building to condominiums. With little down payment, she could own a space of her own. But California’s Community Property laws and the mortgage company required that her husband sign off any right to the apartment.

  She needed the signature of her estranged husband Cam. Nearly two years had come and gone with nothing more passing between them than cursory communication in April when tax season rolled around.

  Maybe it was time to rip off the Band-Aid. She pulled her phone from her desk drawer. Fingering the contacts, she hit her husband’s picture. But as soon as the phone began dialing, she immediately disconnected the call.

  Tomorrow.

  Pulling her sneaker laces tight, she prepared for the fourteen-story descent from the station’s studios on the top floor of the Sunset Boulevard buil
ding.

  She did not take elevators.

  Her ready excuse was that she always needed to lose a few pounds. And given her mother’s penchant for dropping off carb-heavy handmade tortillas and tamales, that part at least was true.

  “Yesenia.” The news director beckoned before she could make her escape. Nervous energy flooded her veins again.

  She trudged the ten feet to Ernesto Barrero’s office. Ignoring his gesture to sit, she stood, trying not to shift her weight or show her fear of being fired.

  “What are you working on?”

  Nothing good, shot through her brain. But she was wise enough not to voice that thought. She sat heavily and made a show of ruffling through the papers in her bag.

  “I have a few things coming together,” she started, forcing passion into their voice. “That scandal involving the county sheriffs and prisoner abuse. Hispanics were affected in greater numbers than anyone else.” Like a dancing minstrel, she continued. “There’s also more on the Coliseum corruption scandal. Turns out there are other workers with grievances, mostly Mexican,” she said.

  “That sounds great if this were Sixty Minutes. But we’re KESP. Sweeps are right around the corner. Our viewers are looking for sex, drugs, badly behaved rock and rollers.” He did an exaggerated shrug. “You know.”

  “I’ve got some other irons in the fire,” she said, not mentioning those irons were cold, and the fire long banked.

  “Yolanda’s coming back next week,” he said, changing the subject.

  Moving to the three to eleven weeknight shifts to cover Yolanda’s maternity leave had been exhausting for the last three months. But even when she went back to her regular duties, she’d have more material for her reel. Maybe she could finally make that leap to a local English language station or national broadcasting on Telemundo. Be done with gotcha journalism. Chasing celebrities was one thing. Getting the dirt on reality show stars was a new low. Ernesto was looking at her oddly. Yesenia wondered how long she’d been quiet.

  The constant anxiety that had sat in her belly for three months churning through the layers like battery acid, bubbled up. Her throat burned. “What does that mean for me?” Yesenia asked. Maybe she couldn’t pull the bandage off the wound of her dead marriage, but work was an altogether different beast. If she was fired, knowing now would be better than later.

  “Don’t look so down. You did a great job on air. Had a meeting this morning with the higher ups and we’re thinking about trying something new.”

  Even though she didn’t want to hang on his every word like a girl waiting to be asked to prom, she couldn’t help leaning forward.

  “We want to add another woman anchor with Hector, change up the format.”

  “Me?” God, now she sounded like that prom eager teenager as well, or Sally Field at the Oscars.

  “Of course, you.” Ernesto said. “I didn’t want to tell you before, but the three month stint was mostly an audition.” He paused for effect. “You got the part.”

  Glee replaced fear. A permanent addition to the nightly news would move her career to the next level. If being seen was the name of the game, then daily exposure was the best she could hope for.

  “You’d have to wear dresses instead of suits, and keep the high heels.” Ernesto said as if exploitation were their every day stock and trade instead of hard news. “You interested?”

  “Sí, yes,” she said without hesitation. She might regret it later, when push-up bras were her currency instead of investigative journalism. But for now, she was willing to stay put at KESP. A steady and hopefully increased paycheck would keep her mother and sister in the country. With a raise she could tuck a little more away for an immigration attorney who could finally get the rest of her family their papers.

  Ernesto looked at his watch. “Damn. Past midnight. My wife’s going to kill me. Let’s talk on the way out.”

  While snaking through the newsroom, they worked out most of the logistics of her new schedule.

  He pushed the elevator button.

  For the briefest second she closed her eyes. Avoid. Avoid. Avoid. The words pulsed in her brain like a strobe. Taking a deep breath to slow her heart rate, she put on her news anchor smile.

  “I’ll take the stairs,” she said to her boss.

  “You’re not fat, Yesenia.” Ernesto shook his head, muttering something about L.A. women under his breath.

  “Exercise is good. Especially if I’m going to need a new wardrobe.”

  She nearly lost the grip on her bag as sweat slicked her palms. With her free hand, she tried to be as cool as possible wiping the moisture from her upper lip.

  “Let’s talk about compensation. It’ll be more private this way.” Of course, he wanted to finish the conversation—in an elevator of all places. That’s what normal people did. Pulling up her big girl panties, she stepped on, careful not to snag her shoe on the gap between the floor and the moving box. She needed money and Ernesto had the keys to the vault.

  He punched the button with two arrows facing each other, and the reflective metal finally started to close them in. Less than a minute, and the descent to the garage would be over. In less than a minute, she could be richer.

  “Damn. Forgot something. I’ll get off. Don’t want to keep you. Good night.” Ernesto said, then jabbed at another button. The doors whooshed open again. “We’ll talk Monday.”

  Before she could push her way out and get off with him, the doors slid closed. She was alone. A single jerk and the box began its descent.

  Her heart went from normal to attack range faster than a Porsche’s engine revved from zero to sixty. Post traumatic stress, her first therapist had diagnosed years ago. Sweat trickled under the wire of her bra and down her rib cage. The protein shake she’d had for dinner threatened to come up. Bitter bile made its way to the back of her throat.

  She swallowed.

  Death was not a reasonable fear. Millions of people suffered panic attacks and recovered every day. She fumbled for her pills then stopped. The alprazolam took at least a half hour to work. An elevator ride had to be less than a minute. Yesenia gritted her teeth against the chatter she could feel prying her jaw apart.

  Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. Held it. Counted to five. Released it. Opening her eyes, Yesenia looked at the red number.

  Six.

  Only five floors to go.

  “You watching the sexy news?”

  “Fuck off,” Cameron Becker said to his on again/off again partner.

  Jean Rivera was the only woman in the LAPD he could say that to and not be busted down a grade or two. They’d done hundreds of sting operations together when Rivera had been younger and didn’t mind dressing up like a hooker. And when he hadn’t minded being out on the streets all night, busting johns.

  Thank God, they’d both wised up to the fact that street-level busts didn’t make a dent in the skin trade about the same time they’d gotten too old for all-nighters.

  Rivera came around the break room table to stand next to him. She crossed her arms, mocking his stance. “You look like someone ate your Pop Tart.”

  Cam uncrossed his arms and tried to do the casual dangle at the side thing he’d seen other men do. Didn’t work too well. He crossed them again, tighter this time. Stiff cotton pulled across his biceps. The commercial ended and his ex—his wife—came up on screen with Hector something or other joking with Jessie like he was her best friend.

  “Ahhh.” Rivera drew out the single syllable for a full two seconds, her voice full of distaste. “It’s Yesenia.”

  “She’s been anchoring every night,” he informed her.

  “Finally made the jump from the weekend, huh?” Her voice held no admiration.

  “Shh.” His heart did the same little skip it did the first time he’d met Jessie. He wondered, not for the first time, if they were ever going to get back together. In the two years apart, the problems that had divided them were less and less important. Jessie gave her signature send
off; good night and stay safe. A minute later, her pompadour sporting co-anchor had his hands around her waist, escorting her off set while the credits rolled.

  Hector had what Cam wanted, the ability to touch his own wife. Torn between jealousy and attraction, he picked up the remote and muted the set. He hoped Rivera couldn’t see the heat he could feel prickling his scalp. Meant his face was probably pinker than it should be.

  “Hey! I was watching that,” Rivera said.

  “No you weren’t.” He added a bark to his voice to hide his embarrassment. “Go home to your husband.”

  “What about you?” Rivera turned on him, her brown eyes unrelenting. “Going back to your tiny studio in Noho?”

  Because, what? Going home alone was a crime? “Yep.”

  “Want to get a drink?” she asked, barely masking her yawn.

  Cam hated the pity behind the invitation. Bachelors got invited to every dinner, barbecue, and holiday meal in L.A. A party wasn’t complete without one. He’d become an accessory—like a Louis Vuitton purse, but not nearly as in demand.

  “Early to bed,” he deflected.

  “Don’t you ever get lonely?” she asked.

  Women. Why did they always want to pair you up? Occasionally he met a woman at a bar in the nearby arts district. They had a good time. That was it. He wasn’t looking to get into a new relationship. The old one still had a hold on him.

  “I’m good.”

  “Why aren’t you divorced yet?”

  The muscle below Cameron’s right eye twitched. Excuses stuck on his dry tongue. For anyone else, he would have dragged out the usual litany; she was Catholic, he had better health insurance. But neither was true.