Killers
Page 1
Davonshire House Publishing
PO Box 9716
Augusta, GA 30916
THIS BOOK IS A WORK of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s vivid imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely a coincidence.
© 2019 Olivia Gaines, Cheryl Aaron Corbin
Copy Editor: Teri Thompson Blackwell
Cover: NuClass Publications
Olivia Gaines Make Up and Photograph by Latasla Gardner Photography
ASIN:
ISBN: 9781393201748
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means whatsoever. For information address, Davonshire House Publishing, PO Box 9716, Augusta, GA 30916.
Printed in the United States of America
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 10 9 8
First Davonshire House Publishing August 2019
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to all the die-hard Blakemore fans who need to sit down and escape from the day to day hustle of living. I invite to turn the page and sit down in the possibility of hope. It springs eternal. This book is for you.
.
“Easy reading is damn hard writing.”
- Nathaniel Hawthorne
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To all the fans, friends and supporters of the dream as well as the Facebook community of writers who keep me focused, inspired and moving forward.
Write On!
ALSO BY OLIVIA GAINES
The Men of Endurance Series
A Walk Through Endurance: Olivia Gaines & Siera London
A Return to Endurance By Olivia Gaines & Siera London
The Art of Persistence By Olivia Gaines
Intervals of Love
Enduring Emily
An Enduring Christmas – Winter 2019
The Technicians Series
Blind Date By Olivia Gaines
Blind Hope By Olivia Gaines
Blind Luck By Olivia Gaines
Love Thy Neighbor Series
Walking the Dawg: A Novella
Through the Woods: A Novella
Life of the Party: A Novella
Modern Mail-Order Brides
North to Alaska
Montana
Oregon Trails
Wyoming Nights
On a Rainy Night in Georgia
Bleu, Grass, Bourbon
Buckeye and the Babe
The Tennessee Mountain Man
Stranded in Arizona – September 2019
The Zelda Diaries
It Happened Last Wednesday
A Frickin' Fantastic Friday
A Tantalizing Tuesday
A Marvelous Monday
A Saucy Sunday
A Sensual Saturday
My Thursday Throwback
Slivers of Love Series
The Deal Breaker
Naima's Melody
Santa's Big Helper
The Christmas Quilts
Friends with Benefits
The Cost to Play
A Menu for Loving
Thursdays in Savannah
Table of Contents
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Prologue
Chapter One – Breathe, Just Breathe
Chapter Two – Making a Difference
Chapter Three – T is for Trouble
Chapter Four – We’re in This Together
Chapter Five – Blind Luck
Chapter Seven – The Team’s All Here
Chapter Eight – Blind Hope
Chapter Nine – Blind Fate
Chapter Ten – The Blakemore Files
Chapter Eleven – The Boracara Returns
Epilogue
Stranded in Arizona
Chapter One – Flake it Rain
Chapter Two – Not All People Are Bad
Chapter Three – Lonely Nights and Quiet Days
Coming Soon: An Endurance Christmas
About the Author
Prologue
YUÑIOR DELGADO STOOD in the receiving line on the front porch of his family’s ancestral home just outside of Colombia in South America. The black cars in the processional drove up the graveled drive, kicking up billows of dust balls that evaporated into wisps of misplaced ideas in the hot midafternoon day. His eyes watched with dismay as the impending arrival of the expected guests made a knot form in the pit of his stomach. They were coming because of him.
Yuñior stood to the right of his father Eduardo while Yuñior’s younger brother Andres stood to the right of the heir apparent. To his father’s left stood Eduardo’s wife, Ryanne, who held the hand of Yuñior’s little sister, Isabella. Eduardo Delgado’s two younger sons did not need to be present for the formal introduction, and as far as Yuñior was concerned, he didn’t want to be present either.
“At least try to look excited,” Andres said to his older brother. “Your future is about to step out of one of those vehicles.”
“This is my excited face,” Yuñior replied, looking over the vehicles into the green fields of his ancestors.
The vehicles came to a stop at the base of the stairs, and engines idled while drivers climbed out of the expensive luxury cars to open doors for ungrateful bosses. Yuñior knew the man exiting the vehicle since the Cartel had met in the formal dining room at their home on several occasions. Always the man came alone. Today, he traveled with his wife and eldest daughter, an offering to seal a bond between the families, as the spouse of the oldest son of the Delgado family.
He hadn’t yet reached his twentieth birthday, but the betrothal was a contract between the families. If accepted, which Yuńior knew he didn’t have a choice in the matter, a piece of paper would be signed, committing him and the young woman under the shroud of lace to a lifetime of partnership as his wife. It didn’t matter if the girl had three teeth and was cross-eyed, she would be his spouse and the mother of his children, the producer of cross-eyed babies who spoke with a lisp since their mother hadn’t enough teeth to pronounce the words correctly.
A low rumble came into his belly and his knees felt weakened at the thought. Music played softly in the background by musicians his stepmother had begun to train as entertainment when his father hosted meetings of pharmaceutical CEO’s in their home. He could hear words being exchanged between the man and his father, but Yuñior’s mind drifted away.
“Senior Delgado, thank you for having us in your home,” Señor Villareal offered with a handshake. “Mi esposa, Ariana, and my daughter, Irena.”
“Welcome to Las Tierras Verdes de mis Antecedents,” Eduardo said with pride as he went down the receiving line, introducing his two sons, wife, and daughter.
Yuńior’s eyes went to the field where old Molle de Shan, Enrique Cabella’s donkey, who by all appearance was on his last legs, stood beside the cart the animal had spent so many years pulling. In harder times, when food was scarce and the crops didn’t yield the needed harvest, animals like Molle de Shan weren’t given clever names. The bodies would feed a village and the skin was used to make straps and shoes for the children. The meat, often tough, would be soaked for days in fruit pulp to soften the muscled mass so that it would be consumable to those with less than strong teeth.
“Yuńior, my daughter Irena,” Señor Villareal said, snapping Yuńior out of the fog that had entered his brain.
Yuńior mumbled a word of greeting, trying to at least seem as if he were interested in the young lady, but his heart was elsewhere. His thoughts were also elsewhere, and more than anything in the world, he desired to be elsewhere as well.
“Por favor, please, come inside for the nooning meal,” Eduardo said, giving his son the side eye.
Ryanne h
ung back as the others walked inside, holding onto Yuńior’s arm. The young man wasn’t much of a talker, but more of a doer. Even in his silence, she could hear the scream from his soul. He wasn’t ready to be married.
“Is everything okay?” she asked, allowing her hand to rub the center of his back as a mother would do a son who didn’t feel well.
“All is well, Mamà,” Yuńior replied, giving a weak smile.
That was the first sign that he was not, indeed fine. She’d been married to his father for nearly three years and in all of those months, Yuńior Delgado always addressed her as Señora. He’d never taken the effort to give her a title other than one of a woman married to his father. In his defense, he never treated her that way, but today he called her Mamà.
Ryanne was worried about her stepson. The always unflappable Yuńior Delgado was flapping. He appeared to be green around the gills and she hoped he would be able to get through the evening.
HE COULDN’T BREATHE. No matter how hard he tried, air didn’t seem to reach his lungs and the restriction made him gasp. He went to one knee, then to both knees, and finally, Yuńior couldn’t get up.
Eduardo ran to his side, offering words of encouragement, asking him to control his breathing. It was a panic attack. The spectacle was also embarrassing the family, so Andres took one arm and his father another, lifting him from the porch and carrying him into the house.
“I’ll get him water,” Ryanne called out as she ran full speed towards the kitchen. Isabella came to his side, touching Yuńior’s face while providing butterfly kisses to his cheeks. His little sister was a loving child, always ready to provide comfort. He forced a weakened smile to her as well as his father.
“I’m fine, Papa,” he lied, trying to ease his breathing and gather himself. The attempt to gather his wits faltered as darkness surrounded his vision. His eyelids fluttered as everything went black. His last thought before he passed out was to get away. He needed a few days to clear his head, away from the life he’d been born to live and the people he’d been groomed to lead.
Never once had he been given a choice to be anyone other than the son of Eduardo Delgado, and he even bore his name. Life closed in around him, forcing him down a path where he'd been sculpted to hold in a position that wasn’t comfortable, in the form a statute that would forever be immobile.
If only he could breathe for a moment.
Chapter One – Breathe, Just Breathe
MY WIFE-TO-BE.
She's attractive.
I bet she's dumb.
I hope she's not dumb.
This damned room is spinning.
Try as he might, Yuñior could not manage to make his eyes focus. The black dinner jacket seemed to constrict around his middle while Senor Villareal pulled back Irena’s headdress to reveal a face, loaded with bright colored eye shadow and lip tint. Heavy rouge covered the subtle cheekbones and dark liner traced the outer lids of her eyes, giving her the appearance of a Mexican death doll. The deep red lip coloring accentuated the full pouty lips, which in another setting would have moved him to take the woman into his arms to taste the mouth that would read stories to their children before bed and offer him solace when his muscles ached and heart was heavy. Today, he couldn't concentrate on the beauty of the woman, just the impending task ahead.
In a year he would turn 21 years of age. Three months after that, Irena would be his wife. Fast forward a year later and he would pace the floor at night holding his first child, consoling the little one and hoping to get it to sleep. Sweat formed on his forehead as he began to sway to one side. His brother Andres materialized at his side, gripping his arm.
"Hermano, she is not a bad-looking woman," Andres offered. "How do the Americans say it, ah sí, I would tap that."
The joke fell on deaf ears, not allowing Yuñior to hear Andres’ words over the rush of blood pounding against his eardrums. He needed some fresh air and fast. If not, the only person he would consent to marry would be the floor. The room swam like an earthquake was rocking the floorboards, making it difficult to stand. His knees began to buckle, and he knew at any moment, he was going down or something was coming up. The gurgle in his stomach was the telltale sign as he opened his mouth to speak, letting out a loud belch.
"Ughh," he wretched. "Pardon me."
It happened again, following by a gagging sound as his father's facial expression darkened. His stepmother inched forward, taking him by the arm before Yuńior's breakfast ended up covering his betrothed. He tried again to stand on his own, but it didn't seem to be working.
"Excuse me, please, while I get a bit of bicarbonate for my stomach," Yuñior told the small group. "I'm coming down with a possible virus."
Ryanne moved to his side, "Let me help you make that."
"No Mamà, I can take care of it myself. Please excuse me for a moment," he said, nodding to his father, then to his future father-in-law. He offered his soon-to-be fiancée a brief smile, begging her forgiveness as he went to the kitchen, his anxious eyes searching for an escape route. The keys to his vehicle hung on the wall by the door. Dark eyes, almost obsidian in color, focused on the metal blades dangling on the ring, and he was ready to reach for them and drive until the feeling of overwhelming nausea subsided, but first, he needed air.
Yuñior yanked open the back door, stumbling out onto the porch, leaning against the balustrade and taking slow measured breaths. He knew this day was coming but he still could not wrap his mind around the lack of choices he made for his own life. Although he trusted his father without question, the dilemma arose, filling his soul about questions within himself. In many ways, he'd left America with unresolved air hovering between him and Melissa. In his heart, he wanted to bring her to his home, walk through the fields he would inherit, and show the petite blond lover his world which held the family’s livelihood. There was no way for her to understand him as a man until she could see the green fields of his ancestors, smell the rich soil, and sample the fruits grown in his valley. Melissa needed to meet the people in his village that he would be tasked to care for throughout his lifetime.
He felt like an idiot, pining for a woman he couldn't have while one waited on him in the other room ready to become his wife. Melissa couldn’t be a part of this world. She was too fragile. Too delicate to comprehend decisions of life and death which would be required on his part in a notice of less than seconds. The woman in the other room understood their life. Melissa never could.
"Get it together, man," he chastised himself.
A gentle hand touched his arm, making him jump nearly a foot and take a defensive pose. The hand belonged to Irena, who held a glass of bicarbonate and water. The lady who was promised to share his life offered a gentle smile, at least that's what he thought. Through the layers of lace covering her face, he wasn't certain.
"I'm sorry. I didn't hear you walk up," he said, taking the drink from her hands. It was unlike him to be so off his guard and not hear the soft footsteps. He accepted the drink. Since he had not seen her make it in his presence, he would not drink the solution, opting instead to set it down.
"I'm light on my feet," she said in a soft, melodic voice. The silence between them lingered as she stared at the glass that he'd sat down rather than consumed. "You do not wish to drink the bi-carb. Are you feeling better?"
"Not really," he mumbled, looking at the glass.
"Based on your reaction, I take it you were not pleased with me as your future spouse?" Irena wanted to know. Her face was still shielded behind the layers of lace that, in some form, felt borderline creepy to Yuńior.
"My lovely one, it is not you who displeases me in the least," Yuńior confessed, staring at the dark eyes through the lace. "At this point in my life, my disappointment is more with myself."
"This I understand," she told him.
The silence hovered as both searched for the next words. Irena had no words but wanted to shift the dynamic between her and the man her father had chosen for her to marry. His
honesty was refreshing versus one or two others she had flat out refused to accept, threatening to run away from home if Doñ Enrique insisted. This one she liked. The air of mystery hanging around him drew Irena to the man. The freshness of his reaction to being groomed to marry a woman he didn't know took her by surprise. She prayed silently that he wasn't a man of odd proclivities who preferred the company of men over women. She removed the lace headdress, freeing her face from the material.
"Would you happen to have a handkerchief?" Irena asked Yuńior.
"Of course," he responded, taking the handkerchief from the inner jacket pocket and passing the soft cotton to her.
"Perfecto, gracias," she responded. The cloth in her small hands wiped over her cheeks, lifting off layers of rouge. Gentle hands tore away the artificial lashes, leaving behind thick long lashes that stood out unenhanced by the aid of any additions. She wiped away heavy eye shadow, leaving her lips to be tackled last, taking off the thick red lip rouge. Irena’s hand went up to remove the pins from her hair, allowing the long, dark, thick tresses to fall to the middle of her back, and Yuńior swallowed hard.
"Well, that answers that question," she said with a coy smile.
"Que? What question was that?" he wanted to know, looking at the creamy skin. The face was a mess. The makeup traces of vivid colors lingered on the soft skin. Irena’s attempts to remove the excess only forced the procession in smearing the coloring across her face, giving her the appearance of a drunken clown after a night of debauchery.
"That you like women," Irena said, covering her mouth with her hands to shield the giggle. "I'm sorry. I mean no offense."
"I'm offended that you would believe that a man like myself is not moved by your beauty," he said, taking the cloth from her hand. "May I?"
"Sí," she said, standing still as he wiped her eyelids, removing the final traces of gaudy colors. Yuńior rubbed gently on her cheeks to lift off the remaining blusher, and finally, her lips.