by Amy J. Heart
“Who’s that?” I ask, leaning a little closer. I hate the smell of his aftershave. Expensive. Overpowering.
His grin flickers as he flaps the photo between us. “An old friend.” He chuckles like a slob. “Or should I say a young old friend.”
Yuck, Coop is gross. “Can I see?”
Eyes narrowed, he studies me. My long brown hair in a wet tangle from the rain. Silly black dress, tight like a bandage. Dark red lips pretending to smile. I don’t know why he looks so suspicious of my appearance, he made me like this.
After giving the picture a cherishing fondle, he hands it over.
I grip it hard, because Coop is likely to change his mind any moment and whip it away. He loves to power trip like that.
I look down at the photo. “Oh,” I say as I press a shaking palm against my chest.
“Oh, indeed,” he agrees.
A boy who could be my age sits on a couch. It’s Coop’s couch. Broad back to the camera, the guy wears jeans, swirls of intricate ink—and that’s about it. Torso twisted, he looks through chunks of dirty blond hair over his shoulder, directly at the photographer. Or, in this case, the person viewing the image. Lucky me!
He’s laughing but he doesn’t look happy. Arrogance shapes scorn into every feature. Even his eyes—his electric blue eyes—are bitter and mocking as they hook me hard, drag me close, and ruin me.
I stutter in confusion. “God. This is… unbelievable. He’s…”
“Oh. Yes.” Coop snickers. “He most certainly is.”
My heart pounds. “What’s his name? How come you’ve never spoken about him before?”
“Thirteen months ago, I was negligent, and he slipped through my fingers. But I’m doing my best to remedy that stupid fucking mistake, Eden.”
My blood chills at the violence in his eyes. Something else lurks in his expression. I’m not sure what it is, but icy shivers prickle over my skin from its intensity.
“Well, who is he?”
“Somebody that I used to know. And plan to again. Very soon, I hope.”
That poor guy. I hope he’s well hidden. “Coop! You’re not answering my question.”
“You don’t need to know, Eden. He’s my little secret.”
A dirty one, I bet.
As my fingers stroke the photo, Coop breathes a sleazy laugh through his nostrils. “Nice, huh?”
Nice is not the word for this face. The smile. Those eyes.
Something claws deep inside me, a sick longing, as I pass the picture back. “He’s okay, I guess.” Liar liar pants on fire.
Bushy eyebrows hike upward, his brow tightening as he digests my unexpected answer.
It’s never wise to let Cooper know your attention has been snagged by anything. The guy lives to take things away from people.
In the light of the street lamp, rain streams down the car window in pretty orange rivulets. Preparing to head into the cold, I tug the annoying black dress down my thighs. My nipples will probably freeze and shatter the second I open the door.
Oh well, given my lack of prowess with the opposite sex, I doubt I’ll ever have a need for them.
“Here.” His disgusting paw goes to my shoulder, the other holding out a thick wad of notes. “Here’s your present. Buy yourself some text books for school. I know they’re probably the only luxury you’ll allow yourself.”
True.
I need to get qualified. I need work. And I need to pay Coop back and then never ever ever set eyes on him again.
I don’t know much about life, about who I am or where I’m going, but one thing is certain—Cooper Martinez is a prick. I have to break free from him.
“Thanks,” I say, tucking the money into my purse, already shuffling away from him.
I open the door, wobble onto the sidewalk, and then slam it shut without a word. I imagine his smug laugh as he pulls off the curb. And because he likes to take his time letting go, he drives slowly down my street.
I want to see the stars twinkle before I head upstairs, but the sky is overcast. Leaden. Like my heart.
I’m lonely. Lost. Like the boy in Coop’s picture.
That guy makes my insides melt. My outsides quiver. My heart dance.
And as much as I’d like to lay eyes on him in the flesh, see that smile, touch that face, I hope with every part of my being that this boy stays hidden.
A slice of sky appears between a break in the smoky-gray cloud cover, a bright star shining down through it.
I make a wish. I say a prayer. I whisper a plea.
May that boy stay lost.
May he never be found.
Keep him safe.
Keep him safe.
About LIGHTNING BOY - the story continues four years later.
Lightning never strikes the same place twice. Unless he’s a boy called L.
My name is Eden and I only want one thing in life—and it isn’t to have sex with some guy I’ve never met in front of three creepy businessmen. But when dirty-copper Coop, who holds the deed to my family’s farm, says jump—I ask how high. And ex-street kid L is nothing like I expect him to be.
He’s so much worse.
Now I want three things.
My dad’s farm back.
To know why a guy as hot as L has never slept with a girl before.
Coop to die a painful death.
And there’s a fourth. Here’s a hint…
It starts with the letter L.
Just like this story does.
Is happy-ever-after possible when your meet-cute happens in front of three voyeurs in business suits?
Keep reading for an extra-steamy preview…
EIGHT
Lightning Boy - book two preview.
Eden - four years later
BEFORE SAM DIED, he passed on two pieces of advice. One good and the other just plain weird.
The good: if your heart aches every single time you look at someone—run and run fast—because it probably won’t end well. It sounded fair enough at the time, considering what he’d gone through with my mother. She left when I was three.
And the weird: lightning never strikes the same place twice. Sorry? Was that even true? I suspected a little Googling would shoot that one down pretty darn fast, but I didn’t pull out my cell to check. That would be a waste of time. And dad didn’t have much of that left.
Out of all the corny lines he could’ve chosen to pass on to his teenage daughter, those two were pretty lame. I longed for precious words I could hold close to my heart, pretty words that I could cling to over the years. So to be honest, I was disappointed.
“Remember those two things, Edie,” he’d said, his bony fingers pinching my arm.
I nodded obediently and kissed his gaunt cheek. Then in the rundown cottage on our overgrown lavender farm, I slumped over the bed, watching the cancer chomp away at his body, and I came to the conclusion that the disease must have finally reached his brain.
Why else would he waste his precious breath spouting mad theories about lightning?
After he’d fallen asleep, I called his oncologist. And within the fortnight, Dad was dead.
Then a whole six years later, it only took one meeting with a boy called L for me to realize that dad had been dead right, no pun intended, about the heartache bit. One look at that guy and he got under my skin, tore my heart out.
Not long after making L’s acquaintance, I knew for sure that Dad had been wrong about the second thing—about lightning.
It could strike the same place twice. And the same person, too.
Repeatedly.
I was hard evidence, because that boy was Lightning with a capital L. And he blew me into pieces several times over.
And one horrible day, when I knew L a little better, I stared into his furious neon eyes that were way too close to mine, and all I could think was—why? Why the hell hadn’t I run and run fast?
Just like Sam had told me to.
Eden
I HATE COOP.
The
sweaty, dead-eyed, sleazy-pig bastard. And this might seem a little over the top, but I wouldn’t mind killing him one day.
I don’t know when. Or how. He’s an ex-cop, and a dirty one, too, so it won’t be easy to achieve. But as I watch his name—appropriately saved as The Devil—flash across my phone screen, I fantasize the hell out of it. Picture wrapping my fingers around his filthy throat, wishing my hands would miraculously morph into giant, stronger ones.
But who am I kidding? When I watch bank commercials on TV, I cry.
So it probably won’t be me who kills Coop, but one day he’ll get what’s coming to him. He makes life difficult for enough people. It’s only a matter of time.
I’ve just finished swimming laps at the local pool and I’m tired. The last thing I want is his dreaded summoning call. It’s been almost five months since he’s asked me to do something vile, but even before I answer my cell, I know. I know it will be bad. I pick up anyway.
His gruff voice barks out instructions. I hang up before he’s finished speaking, because small victories are better than none.
The gray walls close in on me as I stand limp in the middle of the change room with my heart thumping, the smell of chlorine burning my nose and the thought of what Coop wants me to do stinging my eyes.
Wake up Edie. Think of it as one more step closer to getting Sam’s farm back. Your farm back.
A home—it’s all I want.
So, I haul major ass across town to be there within the hour. Because that’s what my Lord and Master wants.
Be there by four-thirty, Edie. Or else.
Since I have no intention of finding out what ‘or else’ means, at exactly 4.30 p.m. on a sunny Friday afternoon, I find myself in the marble bathroom of a soulless city apartment, stripping down to my underwear with Coop’s beady eyes running over me.
“Get a move on, Edie. He’s like a fucking wild thing. Likely to bolt any minute. So I don’t know how long he’ll stick around for. And I really, really need to pull this one off.” He gives me a foul wink and adds, “So to speak.”
Once upon a time, Coop was handsome. You can see it there in his bone structure. But his broad, princely features have long been ruined, puffed out by excess booze and depraved living. I’m sure the black heart pounding in his chest doesn’t do much for his complexion, either.
Eyes rolling, I shimmy out of my stockings and slip off a black stiletto heel, leaning a sweaty palm against the green-tiled wall. “Why are you so worried? The word going around is that you’ve got this guy on a very tight leash,” I mutter, reaching for my second shoe.
I hate the things, love my biker boots and any item of clothing that adds a protective layer. Today, I’ve worn the come-fuck-me shoes because Coop believes that they help get the job done. Make it easier. Like a tool belt on a carpenter. But I can’t stand them a second longer, so I try to sneak them off.
“Not entirely. He’s a loose cannon this one.” Coop’s laugh echoes around the room. “Hey, leave those shoes on. He just might like ‘em. Fuck knows what will get the bastard jacked up. You know, I don’t think he even can get it up for a girl. He probably never has before.”
“Shit, Cooper! What if he can’t? You promised this would be one of the last times you’d make me do this. No matter what happens today, please tell me that you’ll count this.”
I reef paper towel from the dispenser and pretend to work on my smoky eyeliner in the mirror. No way I’m crying in front of this asshole. “It won’t be my fault if he can’t do it. I showed up here just like you asked me, wearing these stupid clothes.”
In a flash Coop has me squashed against the wall, his beer gut pushing into my stomach, stale breath hot in my face.
Beefy fingers squeeze my windpipe. “Mind your manners, you stupid little bitch, or you’ll find out what the extremely unpleasant alternative to ‘helping me out’ like this is. I don’t think you’ll like it.”
Suppressing a smug grin, he drops his hand and steps back. “If you fuck this up, we’re all in trouble here, so shut up and listen to the deal.”
He folds thick arms over his navy sports coat, leaning on the door behind which his kinky buddies wait. “Out there in the living room are three suits and my boy L. Now when you get in that room, ignore the suits, don’t even look at them. Just do whatever the fuck L says. He’ll be ready for you. Mentally at least. And you’d better fucking hope you can inspire him physically. When you’re done, come back in here. I’ll be waiting.”
“You’re not watching?”
“Not today.”
Praise be!
“Stop looking at me like I’ve kicked your frigging dog and get a move on, Edie.”
Right. Wonderful. So, I simply have to turn on a guy who, according to Coop, bats exclusively for the other team. Shit. With my overly-abundant female attributes, I think I’m going to be at a distinct disadvantage.
Coop strokes a lock of my long hair, making sure to press his thumb over my nipple through the red bra as he pushes dark strands over my shoulder. “You’re looking good, Edie.”
I repress the urge to smack him. “Only my friends call me that. I’d prefer all you other assholes to call me Eden.”
“Feisty today, aren’t ya?”
Coop smirks as I shrug him off. I don’t want to speak to him any more than I have to, but curiosity gets the better of me. “So what’s he like, anyway?”
“Who? L?” Coop snickers. “He’s broken. Angry. And a completely ruthless prick.”
I snatch my brush from the vanity and drag it through my hair briskly so Coop can’t see the terror in my eyes. Hopefully, he’s just trying to scare me.
“Do you mean the letter L? Now that’s a stupid name. No mother calls a baby that.”
“True. When he was a kid, he was called something else. But living out on the streets, he earned a different name.” Raising a bushy, gray eyebrow, he pauses for dramatic effect. “You wanna know what he’s called?”
I puff a loud breath through copious layers of lipstick. “I asked, didn’t I?”
“Well, that boy out there answers to the name of Lightning.”
I freeze, skin prickling as an image of Dad’s face strobes over my brain. Shit. I don’t want his memory polluted by Coop and his filth. The hairbrush feels like a brick in my palm as I set it down on the counter. “Lightning? Really?”
“Yep. But mostly, he just goes by L.”
“Why is he called Lightning? I mean it’s a pretty weird—”
“He got the name because the little cunt was flash-fast. At everything. Stealing your wallet. Running away. And most impressively at getting people off. He could make a guy come in his pants within seconds. And he doesn’t mind making them suffer, either, which they love. Made him famous in our little circle of twisted money makers. Speaking of which, those suits out there have paid a great deal of money to watch L try to fuck you, so quit stalling and go make it happen.”
Try?
God, these little sex-party setups of Coop’s are disgusting, but this has to be the sickest yet. And the most dangerous.
What kind of a person pays money to watch a guy attempt the impossible anyway?
Well, I won’t have to wonder about the brains behind this sick scheme for much longer. I’m about to walk through the door and meet him.
And this L person. The guy sounds like he’d rather have sex with a pillow than a girl trussed up in red lace. But he might enjoy making me cry. So that’s awesome for him. Me? Not so much.
Hopefully, L has a first-class imagination. It might help him get the job done.
Luckily for me, my body responds even when my brain doesn’t want it to, and that’s both a curse and a saving grace. It certainly reduces the pain factor.
“Want a hit of coke?” says Coop. “Something stronger? Might help if this goes badly. I know exactly what L’s capable of. How far he’s prepared to go. And believe me, Eden, it could hurt.”
“No, thanks.” Not even the fear of what’s wai
ting for me out there is enough to make me go down that path. In a couple of hours this will be over. And I’ll be that much closer to freedom.
That is if Lightning can play his part.
Picturing the psychotic dandy that I’m about to go and rub myself against like a sad cat on heat—wiry, slim, maybe wearing a cape with the letter L on it—I take a big breath and push through the door. Then nearly fall flat on my barely-covered butt.
Hells bells!
Completely naked, a scowling blond god stands next to a padded bench, hands on his lean hips, inked biceps flexing, and his impressive package looking far from fired up.
He’s the polar opposite of a foppish dude in a superhero getup and about the most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid eyes on. And shit he looks strong.
Well, if I die today, at least I’ll have a spectacular view as he squeezes the life out of me.
That’s something, I suppose.
L
THE GIRL WOBBLES toward me like a tipsy geisha on stupid shoes. A snail could go faster. “Do you think you can move a bit quicker? I turn into a pumpkin at midnight.”
She stumbles slightly, then keeps limping forward.
For the first time in our long and completely fucked up association, Coop has surprised me. To make this a sure thing, today of all days, I thought he’d serve up a chick who looks the part. Beautiful and kind of androgynous.
Or at the very least—one who can walk properly.
It’s not that she’s ugly or anything. She just looks… fucking scared. Not what I was expecting at all.
Tilting her head at the sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind me, she says, “Don’t worry. I should make it over to you by about eleven o’clock. There’ll be plenty of time for you to spank me or whatever. You can relax.”
A puff of air parts my lips. It’s almost a laugh.
She comes closer. Dust motes swirl in the golden light between us, the air thrumming with tension. The pricks in suits have even stopped talking about stocks and market forces, their attention focused on each unsteady step she takes.