Ten Million Fireflies
Band of Sisters Novel 1
By Marianne Rice
Also by Marianne Rice
A Well Paired Novel
At First Blush
Where There's Hope
What Makes Us Stronger
Here With You
Finding Our Way Back
Something More
All of You
A Wilton Hills Christmas
Marshmallows & Mistletoe
Cocoa & Carols
Peppermints & Packages
Band of Sisters
Ten Million Fireflies (Coming Soon)
The McKay-Tucker Men
False Start
False Hope
False Impressions
The Wilde Sisters
Then Came You
Wilde for You
Standalone
Smoke & Pearls
Table of Contents
Title Page
Also By Marianne Rice
Ten Million Fireflies (Band of Sisters)
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
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
EPILOGUE
THE END
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Also By Marianne Rice
About the Author
© 2021 Marianne Rice
Cover Artist: Wicked by Design
Editor: Silvia Curry
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. 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 in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact Marianne Rice at www.mariannerice.com.
CHAPTER ONE
Brooklyn read the dollar amount on the official letter from the law offices of Stellar and Morton and flicked it across the dark walnut desk.
“You can tell Ike Ross I don’t want his millions. Tell him he can shove them—”
“Ms. Ross.” The pretentious lawyer cleared his throat. “Your father—”
“He’s not my father.”
Just because the iconic rock star knocked her mother up thirty-one years ago did not make him her father. She didn’t want his money on her birthday or at Christmas, and she sure as hell didn’t want to cash in on the trust fund he’d set up for her.
“Ms. Ross.” Henry Morton squirmed in his seat and glanced at the clock on the wall to his left. “Mr. Ross already sent a press release and made reservations for you to join him for dinner tonight at Capella.”
Of course, her media-hungry, drug-addicted, alcoholic musician sperm planter would want the media attention. The doting father giving millions to his daughter. The daughter who received four medals and was discharged with honors from the United States Army.
How noble of him to call attention to himself.
On the week before his newest album dropped.
Ironic, since his last album, laced with anti-American lyrics, tanked.
Brooke figured there wouldn’t be any flag burning music videos made this time around. It sickened her that he felt he was above the law and could live by his own rules. He thought he was exempt from laws the mere middle and lower class had to adhere to.
“And if I don’t show?” Brooke leaned forward, resting her elbows on the opulent desk. She knew she looked incongruous in the fancy attorney’s office with her navy hoodie, ripped jeans, and white Converse sneakers, but she didn’t care.
Jeans, sneakers, and sweats. She was a no-fuss kind of girl and had learned long ago not to care what other people thought of her. She cut her hair in a no-fuss bob, vowing never to wear it in a tight bun or see a bobby pin ever again.
“Ike... Mr. Ross has a gift he’d like to hand-deliver.”
Sure he did. And a hug and a kiss on the cheek as the paparazzi snapped their cameras.
“Look, Mr. Morton. I know you’re hired to do as Ike has asked, and I’m sure he’s paying you a boatload of money, but Ike doesn’t own me. I don’t want his money and I don’t want this gift he wants to hand-deliver. Tell him I’m an obstinate bitch, which isn’t far from the truth, and let me live my life.”
Whatever life that may be. The trailer she grew up in near Rumford, Maine, was gone, as was her grandmother. Brooke had nowhere to go. No real responsibilities. She’d returned to the same life she had before she enlisted.
“You’re not what I expected, Ms. Ross.”
“Do I dare ask why?”
“Most people, when told they have a trust worth five million dollars, would jump up and down, scream, faint. I doubt many would turn it away.”
“Well, I’m not most.” Brooke stood and held out her hand. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Morton. I’m sorry to have wasted it.”
“Ms. Ross,” he said to her retreating back, “if you don’t want the money, I suggest donating it to a worthy cause. Or multiple charities. There are plenty who would appreciate the donation.”
Five million bucks. Yeah, she could do some good with it.
Turning around, she tucked her hands into the front pockets of her sweatshirt and nodded. “Now that, I can do. I’ll be in touch.”
She spun around and brainstormed her options on the way to her car.
“A GIRLS’ GETAWAY? I’M in.” Charlie practically squealed on the other end of the phone. “I’m sure I can get a weekend off. When are you thinking?”
Since her medical discharge four months ago, Charlie had been bored out of her mind. Culinary classes and waitressing at night still weren’t enough to keep her entertained. At least, according to all the texts she’d sent to her Band of Sisters on an hourly basis.
“I rented a house on Autumn Pond in Angel Springs.” Brooke turned her cell on speaker mode and set it on the rickety table while she bit into her burger.
“That sounds adorable. I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s near Sugarloaf. Kind of secluded.” As was most everything in western Maine. “I rented the house for three weeks. Pretty cheap since tourist season won’t start for another month.” Which would buy her a little more time to find somewhere to stay other than the dingy motel she’d been bunking at for the past week.
“Sounds awesome. I won’t be able to take much time off once Memorial Day comes, so now’s a pretty good time. Probably not the entire week, though. When’s everyone else coming up?”
“Not sure. I called you first figuring you’d be starting your shift soon.”
“Aren’t you the thoughtful one? Tuesday’s always a slow one, though. I’ll talk to my manager and get back to you. Say hi to the girls for me.”
“Will do.” Brooke ended the call and sent a group text to Skye and Gina. They never answered their phone, so texting was always easier than leaving a voicemail.
Only a few hours later—after she washed down her greasy fast food with a scoop of mint chocolate chip ice cream—Brooke emailed the rental company, confirming her reservation.
The four of them—Brooke, Charlie, Skye, and Gina—hadn’t been all together in over a year. Charlie had made it to Brooke’s grandmother’s funeral a few months ago, and since they lived only a few hours from each other, managed to squeak in a weekend here and there.
Regina Fisher, known as Fish by her platoon and sisters, had just finished up an intensive six-month recovery in a German hospital and had only been back in Maine for less than a month. The bomb that killed many of her squadrons and injured a handful of others, including Fish, had changed her from an outspoken fierce soldier into a quiet mouse. She’d said she wanted to focus on her rehabilitation. In other words, give her some privacy. And Brooke respected her wishes, for the most part.
Skye was still stationed in Virginia and set to deploy later next month. Her limited time in the States made it nearly impossible to get together. But fate was on their side with everyone back in Maine for the next week, and Brooke booked them a getaway.
She needed help to figure out what to do with her unwanted money. Her pride wasn’t so much that she would turn away millions if she could put it to a good cause.
Her sisters were a wealth of ideas. They’d help her spend five million dollars all in one weekend.
BROOKE TOOK THE THIRD pizza out of the oven and placed it on the counter. “Fish, how’s that sangria looking?”
Regina Fisher was the sweetest of the crew. Even after nearly dying from a suicide bomber outside her base camp in Bagram, she kept a positive attitude and never spoke an ill word about anyone.
“It’s better if it sits longer, but we can dive in if you want.”
“Don’t worry about me. I brought my own booze.” Skye dug into her cooler and pulled out a bottle of beer. “None of that sissy stuff for me.”
Skye was the tough one of the group—hard as nails on the inside and cover-model gorgeous on the outside. She had a fierceness her fellow medic pilots often overlooked. There weren’t many women who could fly helicopters, and Brooke was proud to be best friends with one of them.
“You don’t know what you’re missing.” Fish filled three Solo cups with sangria and passed one to Brooke and another to Charlie.
“You’re the best,” Brooke said before taking a sip. “Perfect. I’ve tried to match your recipe a dozen times, but it never tastes as good as when you make it.”
“I’m sure yours tastes just as good,” the always humble Fish said.
“I’m all about compromise. Sangria tonight, a beer with my girl Skye tomorrow.” Charlie held up her cup and the rest of the group followed suit. “Cheers.”
“To our Band of Sisters,” Brooke added.
“Amen, sister friend.” Skye tapped her bottle against Brooke’s cup, and they all drank. “Now for pizza. You may not know how to make sangria, but your pizza is kick-ass, as is this place. Very cute.”
She’d made out well with the rental. Three bedrooms, two baths, and upper and lower living rooms, both with a view of the water. It wasn’t fancy with its thin comforters on the double beds and the chipped countertops in the bathroom, but it was perfect for their needs.
There had been little time to explore the outdoors, but the website had shown a picture of a couple of canoes in the storage shed by the water. Tomorrow they’d check out the pond, which was a lot bigger than Brooke had pictured.
In the meantime, it was nice to hang out with her people; women who understood what it’s like to serve in the male-dominated military. Women who didn’t judge. Women who just got it. All of it.
The pizza was nothing but scraps of crusts, and they were on their second pitcher of sangria—and Skye’s six-pack drained—when they went outside and lit the campfire. The night was cool, and they each bundled up in sweats and sweatshirts.
“This is nice, Boss. Thanks for inviting us.” Fish wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, her scars barely visible in the darkness.
Boss had been Brooke’s nickname ever since she’d surpassed more than half her platoon in all the conditioning and mental challenges. At first, it had bothered her, thinking the men were mocking her, but when she’d earned their respect, she tolerated the nickname.
“I actually have an ulterior motive in asking you guys here.” Even after twelve years of friendship, she’d never told them about Ike. They knew she was an orphan, raised by her ailing grandmother, and that was about it.
They had a code among them. Charlie was anything but private; they all knew her story. A wild child who got into too much trouble and was practically forced into the military. Skye had been in foster care, but the details about her family had yet to be shared. It had been her social worker who had inspired her to enlist.
Fish’s story was incredibly sad. Her parents died from an overdose during her twelfth birthday, and now she had to deal with the physical scars and injury from a bomb in Afghanistan.
It made Brooke’s dilemma seem trivial and stupid.
“Will this require another pitcher of sangria?” Fish asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe champagne?” How did one celebrate giving away five million dollars?
Charlie, always the romantic, shot out of her seat. “You’re engaged?”
“What? You never told us about a boyfriend,” Fish slurred, the booze having the strongest effect on her.
“There’s definitely no boyfriend.”
“Girlfriend?”
Brooke rolled her eyes at Skye. “I’ve never told you about my birth father.”
“You told us he was a loser asshole, and you hoped you’d never see him for the rest of your life,” Charlie chimed in again.
“Which is the truth.” She breathed in an enormous sigh and set her cup on the arm of her chair so she could scrub her hands across her face. “There’s more to the story, though.”
“There’s always more to the story—”
“Charlotte Kellar, will you shut up so the poor girl can talk?”
“It’s okay, Skye.” Brooke tucked her hands inside the front pocket of her sweatshirt and curled her legs up under her. “I recently learned my birth father set up a trust fund for me shortly after I was born. Or rather, when the paternity test confirmed I was his kid.”
“Tell us he left you at least fifty grand.” Skye moved to the edge of her seat.
“He did.”
“Holy shit. You can help pay off my student loans.” Charlie shot her hands in the air in celebration.
“You don’t have student loans, dumbass. The army is paying for your schooling.” Skye pointed her near-empty bottle at Charlie.
“I know. I was hoping Brooke would toss a few bucks at me anyway. Waitressing sucks when you have a bum knee.”
Here her Band of Sisters were, hurting physically, mentally, or financially, while Brooke was fine in most departments. She didn’t have many physical scars from her service, her body was in tip-top shape, and while she had no living family members, at least the ones who brought her up were decent human beings. For the most part.
And now money would be no problem. If she accepted it.
“What I tell you goes no further than this circle, understood?”
“Shit just got real.” Fish only swore when she was drunk. The sangria had done its magic.
“My mom was a bit of a groupie back in her day. Followed the Steel Pirates around in her twenties.”
“I like their old stuff. Not a fan of their last two releases.”
Brooke nodded at Skye. “I’m not a fan of their music. In fact, I can’t stand to listen to it at all. I always change the station when their crap comes on.”
“For an old guy, their lead singer Ike isn’t too bad on the eyes.”
“Charlie.” Brooke scowled. “Never say that again. Ike Ross is a flipping arrogant crackhead. He’s an asshole who thinks money can buy whatever the hell he wants and isn’t afrai
d to use it to buy people and media attention as well.”
“Wow. Some harsh feelings... No.” Charlie’s mouth hung open, the only one in the group putting together the pieces.
“Unfortunately, yes. Ike ‘the asshole’ Ross is my birth father. He’s left me five million dollars in a trust fund I want no part of. Sort of.”
“You’re kidding me. Ike Ross is your dad?” Skye covered her mouth with her hand.
“Who’s Ike Ross?”
“Gina Fisher, you’re my favorite sister.”
“You don’t know who Ike Ross is?” Charlie asked.
“Can we please stop using his full name? It’s annoying.” Brooke swirled the rest of her sangria and tossed her cup on the ground.
“If I’m hearing things right, Ike Ro— Ike, the lead singer of the Steel Pirates is Brooklyn Ross’s dad.” Charlie walked over to Brooke’s chair and sat on the armrest, the limp in her leg still evident.
“He’s a candidate for castration. A lowlife. Stain on the sheets,” Brooke mumbled.
“Sorry, hon. It’s just a lot to take in. You said five mill, right? Shit. You’re set for life.”
Again, the guilt surfaced. Her sisters were suffering and could use the money. A new idea surfaced.
“I’m splitting it three ways. Consider yourselves millionaires.”
“Holy shit,” Fish sputtered, her drink spilling from her hands. “You’re not giving us a million bucks each.”
“One point three million,” Brooke corrected.
“I’m not buying it.” Skye shook her head. “You said you had a dilemma you needed discussing. Giving us over a million each is not the dilemma. Tell us what’s really going on.”
The social worker in her life had done a good job. They’d all teased Skye about her connection to Derek Williams. He was twenty years her senior and a father figure to Skye, but with his Air Force good looks and caring eyes, they all drooled over him every time she broke out a picture.
“I don’t want his money. I want nothing to do with Ike. Can you believe he planned a press release shortly after I met with his attorney? He wanted pictures of him with his honorably discharged daughter. It was all a PR stunt. I refused the money and to see him.”
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