The Complete Tempest World Box Set

by Mankin, Michelle

  “You think it’s ok that we’re making such a big fuss?” April asked me, her gaze glittering with uncertainty after we’d finished up, and she’d returned to her station, she gazed continuously at her mom who was at the other end of the bar talking to Tan.

  “Don’t stress.” I covered her hand, stopping her drumming. Sometimes when she really got going she could tap those fingers faster than King could hit the snare with his sticks. “She looks happy. She’s glad to be out of the hospital, and she and Tan seem to be getting on well.” I raised a brow.

  “You think?” Her forehead creased and she studied her mom and Tan more intensely.

  “Leave her be.” I caught her chin gently and turned her to face me. “What will be will be. You need to give her some breathing room. She’s gonna be ok. We all are. Now come out from behind that bar. Let Ryan take care of it. Have some fun. I’ve met your family. Tonight’s about you really getting to know mine.”

  She made a face, but nodded, both of us ignoring the pixie sized problem in the room.

  Bluebelle.

  Mel had shown up for the party. She’d been out on the ski cross circuit, but was back in town today. April was still not talking to her former best friend. I’d hoped in time they’d sort things out. It seemed obvious to me that they were both suffering and missing each other, but then again what did I know? I was just a guy. What would I know about girl girl emotional crap?

  “When are you guys gonna play some of your new stuff?” April asked.

  “As soon as Justin gets here.” I frowned. Our lead singer was late, and it wasn’t the first time. He’d been late to rehearsals on more than one occasion and he’d started leaving early, too.

  I felt for the guy. He had a lot going on. His father’s illness. His engagement to a hotel heiress. His sister’s looming wedding. Being the key witness in Campanella’s trial since his ex had backed out of testifying. That was a lot of stress for anyone. Enough to fill a book.

  It was obvious to everyone that Bridget and Carter were his priority. Not the band. The guys were starting to complain. Especially with War being around again. Like he was right now. Up on stage, messing around on the piano with Shaina on the bench beside him. There was a lot of second guessing going on, but I didn’t think it would amount to much. War was good and stuck in his contract with Charles Morris at Zenith.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the three of them arrive. John and Michael quickly pulled Carter aside to play, and that was probably a good thing because Bridget’s eyes were blazing blue fire.

  “Hey, Lace.” I grabbed my sister’s arm as she walked by. “What’s up with them?”

  “Who?” she asked, squeezing my woman’s hand in greeting before grabbing a handful of nuts from the bar.

  “Your buddy JJ and his fiancée.”

  She followed the direction of my gaze. “Yeah they’ve been that way all day. Neither will talk about it.”

  They were obviously out of sorts with each other. Frowning, Justin held Bridget’s arms. Her platinum hair swung around her shoulders as she shook her head. Even though it wasn’t me she was directing that anger toward, the situation still made me tense.

  “No Justin. I won’t let you throw away your career. This is your big chance.” Her voice rose. They both seemed to have forgotten where they were, and that they had a captive audience. “It’s not a big deal. The doctor said it’s common to get a little hypoglycemic in the first trimester.”

  Whoa. I pulled my piercing between my lips, my eyes widening. Bridget is pregnant? Lace and I exchanged looks. She seemed just as surprised as I was.

  Never mind enough drama to fill a book.

  We were talking major motion picture material here.

  Maybe April could write the screenplay.

  And since all that drama goin’ down was someone else’s shit, I suddenly got hungry for popcorn.

  “I understand the situation you’re in, but you’ve got other options.

  You don’t deserve to be treated like that. No one does.” – Dizzy Lowell

  Sexual violence is a real and serious problem. The CDC website has definitions, prevention resources, and a hotline available. The CDC is your online source for credible health information and is the official Web site of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC). CDC is committed to achieving true improvements in people’s health. CDC applies research and findings to improve people’s daily lives and responds to health emergencies

  Here’s the main landing page link, along with a couple of sub-links.

  http://www.cdc.gov/violenceprevention/sexualviolence/index.html

  Begin the dialogue.

  http://www.cdc.gov/violenceprevention/pdf/svprevention-a.pdf

  Preventing Child Maltreatment.

  http://www.cdc.gov/ViolencePrevention/pub/PreventingCM.html

  Preventing intimate partner and sexual violence.

  http://www.cdc.gov/violenceprevention/pdf/ipv-sv_program_activities_guide-a.pdf

  TEMPTING TEMPO

  the speed at which a musical piece is played or sung

  It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.

  – Henry David Thoreau

  PROLOGUE

  Sager

  8 years ago

  This shit sucked, waiting outside to get picked up. The rough bricks at my back dug deep grooves into my skin while an icy wind sliced effortlessly through my threadbare clothing. Attempting to ward off the chill, I hunched my frame further over the sketch pad propped on my thighs. Out of the corner of my eye, I could tell the others were watching me because I never let down my guard, not even when absorbed with one of my drawings. If trouble came, and it always did, I would be ready. In the meantime, I pretended to ignore it.

  Lowering my chin, I used my thumb to smooth out the sharp edges on the portrait. The lines of his profile still weren’t right. A long lock of my hair slid forward. I brushed it aside in irritation.

  “¿Qué pasa?”

  Smashing my palm flat to cover my work, my gaze snapped up and my eyes watered as I blinked into the cutting glare of the late afternoon sun. The Hispanic kid from my anger management through art course stepped closer where I could see him. He flashed me a wide smile that I didn’t return. We had been attending the same class together here at St. Mary’s for weeks, but he had never spoken directly to me. I wondered why he had chosen to do so now. My brows drew together as he dropped down onto the cracked concrete beside me.

  “What are you drawing?” he asked, his tawny colored eyes narrowing to slits as he leaned in trying to peer through the charcoal stained fingers I had splayed across the paper.

  “Nothing,” I lied.

  “Doesn’t look like nothing,” he countered, untucking the tails of his white oxford. His stomach strained against the buttons. I could see his undershirt through the gaps.

  “Nothing I’m gonna show you.” I flipped the drawing pad closed, glancing warily across the courtyard at the others. County boys just out of lock up like I was. I didn’t much like how they kept looking away whenever I lifted my head. They were up to something. I knew it. The tension set my nerves on edge.

  “For nothing, it looked pretty good.”

  I returned my gaze to my uninvited companion. He didn’t flinch in response to the scowl I gave him, the one that usually kept the others away. Leaning back into the wall, he mimicked my pose stretching out one thick leg and then the other, bending both at the knees. I noticed that his navy polyester slacks were in much better shape than my ragged, inch-too-short thrift store jeans.

  “My brother used to draw all the time. Not people and faces like you. Graffiti. Flames and stuff.” He had an accent and a unique way of speaking, the pacing of his words slow and then fast. “He was the design guy at the body shop where he worked part time.” He gave me an expectant look I understood. He had shared. He expected me to do the same. But that wasn’t going to happen. I was a loner. I felt safer keeping things to myself. Plus, the
sketch I had been working on was too personal to discuss with a stranger no matter how friendly he seemed. “He wouldn’t show me his stuff either until he was finished with it.” His gaze softened. “I didn’t understand it then. I do now. I’m the same way.”

  “I like the poetry and drumming you do in class,” I admitted, surprising myself. I guessed because I liked his easy manner and had appreciated the admiration in his tone when he had spoken about his brother.

  “Gracias.” His eyes suddenly narrowed. I looked up following the direction of his gaze. The loose band of boys had tightened and inched notably closer. Their leader, a bulked out kid with an attitude to match hadn’t liked me laying him out on his ass the week before. He had been looking for an opportunity to even the score. The courtyard with no grownup in sight, away from King County Youth Services Center staff provided a prime opportunity.

  “Those guys are looking for trouble,” I explained to my companion under my breath, keeping my eyes on them as I did. “We get bussed in together for class. They’re from the same rehab facility as me.” I had been on the wrong end of most of their fists, and they had been on the raw end of mine on more than one occasion. In the beginning I’d needed to establish that they couldn’t push me around. But over time the fighting had become a necessary outlet, an escape valve for the anger that always seemed to keep building and building. Only fourteen years old, I had been shuttled back and forth between youth detention centers and juvenile group homes too many times, a repetitive cycle that had little to recommend it.

  “Sí, but they’re not like you. I’ve watched you. You’re quiet. You’re smart. You only speak when you have something worthwhile to say.”

  Eyes widening at his insights, I glanced at him. He returned my stare. I couldn’t see anything but sincerity blazing back at me. I found myself drawn to him. I relaxed a bit, lowering my shield, though not completely. No one ever really let down their guard all the way in Southside Seattle, not even in their own bed late at night behind a solid steel door with a Pit bull in the other room and an older brother on the couch with a semi-automatic and plenty of reasons to be paranoid.

  “Those vatos,” my compadre continued quietly with a subtle lift of his chin. “They talk, talk and talk all the time, but they’ve got nada to say. Nothing I want to hear anyway. My abuelita would call them de boca grande es muy hablador. Big mouthed braggers.”

  He lapsed into watchful silence, both of us keeping our gazes on the others. I breathed a little easier as they seemed occupied passing cigarettes around. I felt my counterpart relax, too. He lowered his knees and started drumming on the flattened surface of his thighs, the snapping of his fingers against them replicating the pop-pop-pop of gun fire we could occasionally hear on the other side of the tall stone courtyard walls. I found myself involuntarily tapping my foot to his beat while he melodically cobbled phrases together describing the flashing strobes of patrol cars, the bad cops behind the wheel sometimes as lethal as the criminals they pursued, along with the desperation of the street people and the hopelessness of the prostitutes.

  I didn’t get why this kid had sought me out, other than the fact that I liked to draw like his brother did. He seemed to have decided that we were on the same team. Couldn’t he see how unlikely that was? Beyond the white versus Hispanic thing, he was on the top end of the social spectrum while I was on the underbelly of it. Whoever paid his tuition here at St. Mary’s, whoever pressed those straight creases into his uniform, whoever fed him well surely wouldn’t approve of him hanging around with a King County Youth Service delinquent like me.

  I knew my place in the world, and where I would probably end up. I didn’t kid myself. The correction counselor summed it up on the first day of anger management class when he had warned the art teacher about me.

  “Keep an eye out for that one. He’s got a violent streak. It might take a lot to set him off, but once the pin is out of the grenade, stand clear. Anger issues all around in that dysfunctional family. Sager’s old man murdered one of his hookers. His older brother is in super max for brutally carving up a rival in a drug deal gone sour. He might have gotten away with it, too, except that he went back to his apartment and immediately took out his frustration on the youngest brother right in front of Sager. Messed up the five-year-old kid really bad before Sager busted the older brother up worse. Way worse. Like weeks in a coma worse. I wouldn’t be surprised if someday Sager Reed killed someone himself.”

  Remembering those words made the ever present knot in my gut tighten. What troubled me most was that I was afraid the counselor had pegged me just about right.

  “Want some chicle?” The Hispanic kid jarred me from my thoughts as he rocked to one side, plunging his hand into one of his pockets.

  “A what?” My curiosity got the best of me.

  “You know. Gum.” He let out a sigh before thrusting a shiny foil wrapped stick at me. “We’re not supposed to chew it at school, but...” He trailed off directing his gaze at the other boys with their cigarettes to make his point. “There are worse things, right?”

  I nodded and took the piece from him. He unwrapped one for himself, then another and still another before he shoved all three into his mouth and started to chew.

  My fingers closed tightly around the gift. The space between my companion and me seeming to shrink some while the threat from the others a couple of yards away faded into the background. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had offered me something for nothing, not even something as insignificant as a piece of gum.

  “I’m Juaquin. Juaquin Acenado. I go to school here at St. Mary’s.” His introduction was muffled around the gigantic wad of gum in his mouth. “Well, for now anyway. I’m on probation because of all the fights I’ve been in since my brother Adrian got killed.”

  My shocked gaze swung to him. He dropped that bomb about his brother in a neutral tone, but I saw the bleakness inside his eyes. That despair was something I shared, a gnawing wound that never closed.

  “Sager Reed,” I offered him my name and then a whole hell of a lot more. “I lost a brother, too.” I swallowed around the burning lump lodged in my throat. “But he’s in a better place.” My eyes flared with challenge, daring him not to contradict my statement. “You seem like a nice kid, Juaquin. But you should move along if you know what’s good for you. Your momma wouldn’t want you hanging around a guy like me.” The lengthening afternoon shade darkened the features of the others who had moved too close for it to be a coincidence anymore. My unease resurfaced. My fingers crushed the stick of gum. “Things are about to go Southside if these dickwads don’t back the fuck outta my space,” I spit out the warning loud and nice and slow so there wouldn’t be any misunderstandings while locking eyes with the leader. He had a crazy ass look on his face that wasn’t unfamiliar.

  I had seen the same expression on my old man’s face many times when he would come into my room late at night, drunk and knock me around for no reason at all. My mother had been his favorite target until she managed to crawl away one night and never came back.

  My older brother had worn the same look the night he had returned to the apartment popping high on speed and started beating the shit out of Jude.

  I imagined that I was wearing a similar one right now. I felt that crazy beast stirring to life inside me. It clawed at the center of my chest. I tried to contain it. I knew if I didn’t figure out how to manage it, it would take over completely one day, and I would become what I most hated.

  A person who took pleasure in hurting other people.

  Like my old man.

  Like my older brother.

  “Nah,” Juaquin said. “I’m not going anywhere. I knew before I came over here that they were planning on jumping you.” He stood, not as awkwardly as I would have expected for a guy his size, and offered me his hand. I reached out and took it quicker than I had taken the gum. His grip was steady. His face was set. His gaze was determined.

  “There’s too many of them.” Four
plus the leader against two. “We’re not going to win.” I wanted to give him one more chance to get away before things got ugly. But he surprised me yet again.

  “Probably not.” He gave me a grim grin. “But we can sure mess them up bad enough that they won’t ever take on the two of us again.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Melinda

  Present day

  Soft snoring greeted me as I entered the living room of the two-bedroom condo I shared with another girl from the ski team. I zipped my hard-earned grey and black, red maple leaf emblazoned Alpine Canada jacket and allowed my eyes a moment to adjust. A gap in the curtains let in just enough light for me to navigate the cluttered landscape. Spotting a clear path, I tiptoed carefully around the shuffled furniture and the slumbering forms currently using the carpet as a communal mattress. The impromptu party had ended just before dawn with a final round of Fireball shots and by then no one had been in any condition to walk let alone drive home.

  Up at 430 a.m. every weekday, on the lift by six, training session at seven, three hours of dry land drills, followed by an additional three hours on the snow, that was the routine of Canada’s national freestyle ski team. We worked our asses off, so when we were off the clock we played hard, too. The party had been a chance for me to bond with teammates who for the most part remained skeptical of the new girl. So I had kicked back, pasted on a smile and circulated, hoping to find new friends, ones unaware of the mess I had made of my social life nearly a month ago. I might have made some headway, but I was paying for it now, dry-eyed, nauseated and disappointed the Red-Hots-flavored whisky hadn’t yielded the blissful oblivion from the past that I had been seeking.