by Amo Jones
I’m pregnant with our second child, well, third counting Kennedy. Another boy and I’m slightly terrified. Not that Bradley is a hard kid, he’s quite relaxed and makes this mom thing so easy. I’m not sure where he inherited his chill nature, probably from his uncle Wolf. We also have a Tonkinese cat named Greg, thanks to Kennedy, and Leila and Wolf have had two kids now, both girls. I’m starting to think they’re going to have the girls and we’re having the boys. Not sure who should be more afraid, but if they turn out like Leila, then Wolf definitely should be more afraid.
My mom and I have worked through our differences and her and Liza have a healthy relationship now. I guess it took time for Liza to trust her, but they got there. Now they have lunch dates without me and I think my mom has a favorite.
My dad has since moved to LA to be closer to me and Bradley. He and Lara packed up and he relocated here. He’s at our place almost every weekend.
Liza and Talon are the cool auntie and uncle. You know, the ones who don’t have kids and always have a clean house and come and pick the kids up, get them hyped up on sugar and then leave again. They spend most of their time traveling because they started their own travel blog. At first, we all sort of gave them a hard time about how they’re just using it as an excuse to travel, but now they actually make money from it. I don’t know why no one has thought of it before.
Maddox and I still want to expand business one day, but as of right now, we just have Dutch. We’re both so busy with our career’s and kids that we don’t have the time. He’s still undefeated. I know, of course he is. I’m hoping that one day someone will kick his ass, and I tell him this. But he counters it by saying there’s only one person walking this earth who could probably do that—me.
What’d I reply with? Well, fighting isn’t really my thing and he isn’t really my type.
“A good book has no ending.”
R.D. Cumming
‘MANIK blurb:
I’m Beatrice Kennedy, but everyone calls me Beat. I live a low-key life, fresh out of college and drifting from town to town until I find my home. I love music, and how it stirs even the deepest and untouched parts of your soul. Depending on what you choose to listen to, would depend on what it touches. It’s the drug we all damper in, only different strains. My strain is jazz. The smooth instrumental strums that take over me. The sound of cigar smoke, bourbon and an old dusty fedora hat. My strain wasn’t rap, and it sure wasn’t laced with some A-class shit like murky blue eyes cast down from the Lord and the Devil’s handcrafted smile. I knew who he was—the whole world did. One fateful night set off a chain of events, events that no one was coming back from. You can’t save people who don’t want to be saved. You can’t pull them up from the ocean when they’ve latched themselves to an anchor. Love was my anchor, destruction was the water that was drowning me, and the rope that was so tightly clamped around my ankles was woven with the lyrics of Aeron Romanov-Reed, also known as, ‘Manik. He steals hearts from all around the world, but one night, he stole something that wasn’t his to steal.
Me.
UNEDITED - UNPROOFED - SUBJECT TO CHANGE
CHAPTER 3
Thug Love – Bone Thugs
BEAT
I search the room and take in a couple of things.
One, I’m in a basement. Not entirely old, or even beat up, just—a basement. There are dusty wooden stairs that I can see leading up to a door and a small window behind me. The thing I find odd, is the bed.The sheets aren’t exactly used or old either, it’s almost as though the bed is made. Like he was waiting for someone. Was he? Maybe he locks girls down here for fun. My head is pounding, my mouth dry and fluffy, and I need to pee like no one’s business, but the slight fear of dying has these muted at the back of my brain.
I hear the door open, so I crawl backwards until I’m pressing against the wooden headboard.
Manik comes down the stairs, his chest bare and his grey sweat pants hanging off his lean hips. I gulp. At first glance, you would say that he’s beautiful, but the second his eyes land on you, conjures any sense of the word beautiful.
He pins me with a glare, his eyes flat. “What the fuck am I going to do with you.”
“Um,” I clear my throat. “How about let me go?” I have to try.
His jaw clenches, and then he tilts his head as his eyes drop down my body. “How about, no.”
“Okay, well can I go pee?”
His eyes narrow, his hands pressing into his pockets. “Do you know who I am?”
I gulp. “Yes. Aeron Romanov-Reed. I know of you, if that was the actual question…”
He ambles in closer, lighting a cigarette. He inhales deeply, his eyes squinting from the smoke and then blows out the cloud, clenching the cigarette between his thumb and index finger. “I can’t let you go, Voron. You’ve seen too much.”
“Can’t, or won’t?”
His eyes darken. “Still trying to decide.”
“I won’t tell anyone!” I suddenly blurt out. “I swear. Listen, I don’t—it doesn’t.” I shake my head and he sits beside me on the bed, the mattress sinking under his weight. I exhale. “Are you going to kill me?”
The door opens again, letting in a slight crack of light. My eyes shoot towards it, but I can see Manik watching me on the corner of my eye.
I slowly look back at him. His eyes. I flinch.
“Manik?” A big guy—one of the guys who were there last night—says.
Manik slowly peels his eyes away from me, looking over his shoulder. “What?”
“Ah, your old man is coming over to make sure you’ve dealt with the issue.”
“Me being the issue?” I whisper out, more to myself than to them.
I cradle my knees into my chest, only, I start to feel hot and flustered. I’m going to fucking die. Something happens when you surf close to the rip of death. It’s as though you start to second guess every wave you rode to get there. I’ll never get to surf again.
Who would miss me? I don’t think anyone would. I don’t have family. Christmas’ were always spent alone, my birthdays, even more isolated. Truly, what is the point.
Defeated, I stand to my feet, ignoring whatever they’re talking about and remove my leather jacket.
The chatting halts immediately, and I turn to face Manik. “Just, please make it fast. I know you don’t owe me anything, but I’m hoping that there’s some mixture of human essence under that hard exterior, and you’ll just do me a solid.”
I open my eyes when I don’t get a reply, and Manik’s are on my right arm. He’s eating up every inch of skin I have. I look down at my arm, then back at him. “I like tattoo’s.”
He licks his lip and then looks back to the guy on the stairs. “Leave.”
Oh god. Oh god here we go.
The guy glances at Manik, and then at me. He gives me a small smile and then turns and leaves. Manik stands and I clench my fists so tight my nails sink into my palms, forming little crescent moons. I can feel his presence. His heat is thrashing into me without us physically touching. I keep my eyes closed and watch behind my lids as little color dots dance around in various shapes.
My chest rises and falls.
Inhale, exhale.
A gun clocks.
I freeze. The silence is deafening, with nothing but the pounding of my heart and loud desperate inhales of breaths.
A cold metal ring presses against my forehead and I squeeze my eyes shut, my shoulders turning stiff. Sweat drips down my forehead and down the bridge of my nose, balancing on the tip.
He fires. Bang.
I flinch, expecting something. Anything, as I wait for death. I slowly peel my eyes open again and they land on Manik, dropping his other hand which held another gun, to the side of him.
My lip trembles, my knees shake. I drop to the ground in a heap and sob. “What?”
Curling into a ball, I rock softly, the tears soaking the front of my shirt.
“I changed my mind,” is all he says, making hi
s way back to the stairs.
I can’t form words. My mouth is stiff and dry, fear and terror seizing my bones. When he finally reaches the top of the stairs, I swipe my face and ask, “When did you change your mind?”
He grins at me over his shoulder. “About one second before I pulled the trigger.”
Horror. Pure undiluted horror. He nudges his head over his shoulder. “Bathroom is on the other side of the room.” Then he leaves, the door slamming behind him.
As soon as he’s gone, I dive toward where he gestured, finding the grungy pale pink door and kicking it open. Rushing, I dive head-first toward the bowl just as saliva mixed with whatever I last ate comes spewing out of my mouth. I dry reach a few times, until my throat burns with zest from my stomach lining, then sag against the wall, swiping my mouth of the residue. I know why I’m here, but I don’t know why he’s keeping me here. Maybe that’s how he got his name, from being neurotic not with just his words, but with who he actually is. We all know his music is lyrically insane, and if that’s even a slight glimpse of what’s inside his head, then his thought process is not something I should feel comfortable dabbling in. God, I’m so fucked. I stand and rinse my hands in the little porcelain sink, taking a few sips of the water, then dry them with a cotton white towel, that is soft to touch. Why would a man who has everything want something like me locked in a damn basement.
I just want to leave. I feel sick. I’ve never had the feeling of homesickness, not even the slightest charge of feeling homesick. Probably because I never really had a home. Aside from my parents house in Bondi, Sydney, I’ve never really felt like I had a home. Not the kind that most ache for when feeling homesick, but right now, I want my lonely life back. Better to be lonely than dead.
I head out of the bathroom and go back to the bed, crawling into a ball and slamming my eyes shut, thinking of slightly better days.
One, two, three. My feet move to the rhythm of the music, my body rolling like a perfectly orchestrated choir. Music is my life, and dance is my soul, one can’t survive without the other.
“Yo! Beat! Hit this jam!”
Mi Gente by Beyonce started playing.
“Ohhh, I see what you did there…” I teased him with a wink. My head bobbed slightly, then when the beat dropped, my body broke down the syllables. I flicked my hands around, moving my hips with it. I was freestyling, which is where I loved to be most. I loved choreography, but freestyling was something else entirely. Less politics and restrictions. It was just where you got to let loose and showcase what you’ve got off the bat. Bey’s verse came in and I flipped my hair, popping my ass out and shaking slightly. I had the ass to do it— and lucky for me, I’ve always had the small waist. Dancing has always given me a very fit body, so every muscle I had was defined and ripped. I wasn’t a small girl, I was a fit girl. I ate as hard as I danced. The beat dropped again and I let it flow, dropping to the ground on my back and snaking my shoulders up in a wave motion before flipping onto my stomach and pressing the tips of my toes into the ground and shaking my ass as I came back to standing. The song finished and everyone cheered loudly.
“Damn, Beat!” Gerald slapped my ass. “That shit was tight. I’m putting that up on YouTube stat!”
I laughed, shaking my head while taking a drink of water. The next song played.
My skin prickles in shock and I shiver, my eyes popping open. The room is dark, with the only outlining coming from the small window above the bed. It didn’t give much.
So cold, so dark.
“Jesus, he wasn’t kidding,” a girls voice whispers.
I quickly shoot up, crawling backwards to the head board and pulling the covers up with me. The girl walks closer to the bed, a slight crack of the light coming over her face.
Dark hair, that’s all I can see right now, a slim body and long dark hair—much like my own. “Who are you?”
She tilts her head, the same way I’ve seen Manik tilt his. “I’m Katiya, Aeron’s little sister.” She takes a seat on the mattress.
I gulp. “What do you want?”
“Hmmm?” She asks, then her head turns to me and I get a full look because she’s directly in front of the window. Large lips, pale skin, dark hair, and almond shaped eyes—can’t tell the colour right now. Her face shape is different to her brothers though. Where his is clean cut, square and prominent, hers is round. Beautiful, almost baby-like. She smiles. “Oh, I’m not going to hurt you. Ae just told me that he had a girl locked in his basement. I thought he was joking, but he wasn’t.”
I swallow. “Ok.” My voice is croaky. That earlier sip of water didn’t do near enough to curb the age in my voice.
She leans over the bed and I hold my breath. She must hear the deep intake because she chuckles slightly, shaking her head and then sits up again, handing me a bottle of water. The cool dew slips over my fingers, taunting me. My mouth waters just by the thought of wrapping my lips around the rim, so I quickly twist the cap off and toss it across the ground, taking a drink. The first sip is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. The cool liquid soothes the dry cracks that had formed in my throat—best. Feeling. Ever. I drink the whole lot, and then slowly swipe my mouth.
She clears her throat. “You seem surprised to see me? Like you didn’t know he had a sister,” she says it with a slight scoff in her undertone. As if every person would know who she was. Maybe they did, I don’t know.
“Because I was surprised. I don’t know who you are, and you’re right,” I put the bottle onto the ground and slowly lean back against the headboard. I can feel the water rushing through my blood stream, hydrating my bones. I shiver, shaking my head. “I didn’t know that he had a sister.”
There’s a long pause. “Really?” she was skeptical of my words, and that’s okay, because I was skeptical of hers.
“Really.”
“Huh.” She shrugs, then points to the bottle. “Want another?”
I shake my head.
She stands slowly, and then starts retreating back to the stairs that lead up to the door. She turns slightly just before she gets there. “My brother has killed people for much less than what you’ve witnessed. He’s relentless, and completely savage. Do not think under any circumstance that just because you’re beautiful that he will let you live, because he won’t.”
I freeze, even though her words don’t come as a surprise. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because. If you’re going to attempt to escape,” she forces out the words attempt to escape rather obviously, like she’s maybe hinting to me to do it. She continues. “I would do it fast, but know this, Voron, that if you speak of what has happened here, or what you witnessed earlier to anyone, ever, I will know, and let me tell you something. If you think my brother is evil, and my father is the devil, then wait until you’ve met Lilith—because that’s me.” Then she jogs up the stairs before I can ask any more questions, the door closing behind her.
Should I try? What if he catches me and kills me? But what if I stay here and he kills me anyway? What if what she said is a trap…
Rather live on my feet than die on my knees, right?
Continue reading for a sneak peak into Rhythm & Blu by New York Times & USA Today Bestselling Author S.L. Jennings
track one.
Before two minutes ago, there were three definitive times in my life when I felt more conflicted than I do right now.
The first was when Hazel Figaro, my best friend since grade school, butchered her hair to look like T-Boz from TLC. Somehow, the hairdresser selectively heard, “Make me look like Mr. T.” I spent the remainder of the school year and most of the summer reassuring her that it wasn’t that bad as it grew out.
Oh, hell fucking yes, it was that bad. Hazel looked as if she had been caught in a waterfall instead of chasing one.
The second time was the day I had to break down and tell my parents I wanted to put the kibosh on my plans for med school and pursue music. My very traditional Korean father and West India
n mother, both highly respected MDs in their chosen specialties, were not trying to hear that shit.
“Music is not a career,” they said. “It’s a hobby.”
“But it’s what I love…what I’m passionate about,” I countered, feeling even smaller than my already pint-sized five-foot-one stature.
“Passion doesn’t pay the bills, Roxanne. And neither will we if you don’t finish your education.”
And while I’ll only admit it to myself, on days when I’m feeling particularly self-deprecating, they were right. Because music wasn’t paying my bills. And since they had made good on their promise and stopped funding my apartment, car, and expenses, I had to swallow my pride and get a real job. While it was shallowly related to my passion, still, it didn’t nourish my spirit and sing to my soul.
And the third time? Well, that’s come back to slap me in the face hard enough to make me taste a decade worth of regret.
As I sit here staring at my laptop, rereading the email my editor just sent, I have to remind myself that rent is due on the 1st. And even though I traded in my ride for public transportation and a good pair of kicks, I can’t damn well survive off of rice and beans for much longer. These hips can’t take it.
He wanted me to do what?
I turn down the music pumping through my MacBook’s speakers and I pick up my cell to scroll to his number. Surely Bari’s email was riddled with typos and I don’t want anything else to be lost in translation.
“This is Frost.”
I have to bite down on my snort.
Frost is not Bari’s last name. It’s Feinstein. But…ok. These days, everyone has a moniker.