The light shifted and swung to the left. A flashlight. Voices. The squeal of a little girl. Theresa sucked a breath when she heard it.
The girl laughed.
Theresa exhaled, but still, she didn’t move.
“If we sneak back there it looks like we’re up to something.”
“You have no idea who it is,” she growled.
“Shit or get off the pot,” I growled back.
“Fine.” She strode to the center of the side drive and walked to the back of the house. I followed, head high as if we belonged there.
He came out of the bushes—a shadow bum rushing Theresa with his arms out, trying to get at her waist. I didn’t take a second to think. My nerves were code red, and my muscles had a mind of their own. I swung the bag before he reached her, smacking him across the side of the head so hard he was flung back four feet.
“Antonio!” Theresa cried as she ran to him.
My heart sank. I dropped the bag.
“I’m sorry!”
Antonio shook the bees out of his head while Theresa and I helped him up.
“Nice shot, goddess.”
I let Antonio go when I heard footsteps and Jonathan’s voice behind me.
“What the—” I didn’t finish. A little girl was at my feet, punching my leg and screaming in Italian.
“Ow!”
A boy picked her up and took her away, not to save me, but to protect her.
Standing in a circle: Antonio with his hand on his head, Theresa cooing at him, Jonathan looking at me as if he didn’t know what to think, and two children huddling defensively, we were frozen in time.
It was late and I was in a mood.
“We have more groceries in the car. Little help, please?”
ANTONIO
Jonathan and I had brought tools and materials to fix the roof and the pipes. They’d brought food. For over a year, the kids had eaten fine by themselves but the women brought food and fucking toothbrushes. I thought this was the thing that bothered me. After I let Nevio know my sister-in-law was safe and we put everything away together, I was too tired to defend my position.
Jonathan and Monica went home at three in the morning. I found my wife on the worn, dusty couch in the candle light with Simona’s head on her lap. Nevio slept on a cushioned chair, curled into a ball, drooling as he hugged his rifle.
“This is a scene from an opera,” I said, pulling a dining room chair from the corner. I planted it across from Theresa. An ornate wooden coffee table was between us. “Except for the olives.” I pointed to the rows of olives on the broken glass of the coffee table.
“I think counting soothes her.”
“Si, si.”
“What should we do, Antonio?”
I rested my elbows on my knees.
“Tell each other where we’re going, first of all.”
She smiled and looked down at the girl whose hair she stroked.
“I was so relieved you hadn’t gone to the Carlonis that it didn’t even occur to me to be mad.” She looked back up at me. “I guess it occurred to you.”
“I was going to throw you over my shoulder and put you in the car.”
“That didn’t go well.”
“It did not.”
“How’s your head, by the way?”
“Fine. Bene.”
We sat in silence. Nevio turned onto his back, draping his legs over the arm of the chair and gently snoring.
“What should we do?” she asked again. “We can’t leave them here. They witnessed a crime, and you said yourself that putting them in social services, or whatever you have here would expose them.”
“We can’t take them back.”
“Can’t we?”
It was the first time she spoke aloud what I knew she’d been thinking since that afternoon. Possibly, she hadn’t been able to speak the words in her own mind. Or she was waiting for me to hear it first.
“They’ve been through enough,” I said. “Taking them out of the country to a place where they don’t know the language? Look how they live. Did this one,” he jerked his head toward Nevio, “ever say he wanted TV or video games? No. He’s more mature than most adults in America and he’ll be held back in school.” I sat back in the chair, imagining how hard it would be to move them. Not just the change of language, but the change in culture and expectation. “And who are we to these kids?” I asked. “We landed in their place like a conquering army, bearing gifts like diplomats. I own the land and the house, of course, but not to them. To them, this is their world.”
“You’re a sensitive man,” she said.
“Don’t try and handle me.”
“Well, you are.”
“Just say it, wife. Speak your wishes.”
She took a single, deep breath that filled her chest, driving it up and out. With Simona in her lap, I realized those gorgeous tits would never be used to feed a baby.
“What if…” she paused for another breath. “What if we stayed for awhile?”
“Awhile?” I crossed ankle over knee, settling in. She knew we had responsibilities in California better than anyone.
“We could fix up the house around them. And you can actually do what you said you were going to do.”
“Which is?”
“Talk to someone. But this time, you talk to them about leaving the children alone. You tell them they’re under your protection, and if they’re hurt in any way…”
She trailed off.
“Threats only work if you intend to carry them out, Contessa.”
“It would be hard for me not to carry them out, Capo.”
She was a woman of frightening depth, capable of angelic kindness and unspeakable savagery. She’d kept me honest for a long time, now it was up to me to return the favor.
“I’ll save you from yourself, then.”
She caught herself mid-breath.
“Is that a yes?”
“If we stay here and rebuild this house and our lives around children you don’t know…will it make you happy?”
“To take care of them?”
“Will that make you happy?” I repeated.
“Yes.” Her voice cracked. I held my palms up in surrender.
“Then what else can we do?”
She blinked, and candlelit tears fell down her cheeks.
“Antonio.” One word. No more.
“Why are you crying?”
“I don’t know.”
I got up and kneeled at her feet, reaching over Simona to wipe my wife’s tears away.
“It’s going to be really hard,” she said.
“I inherited the house and everything in it. A bad roof. Cracked foundation. Two resourceful children. I have to take care of it. All of it.”
“Can your mother and sister come?”
“You don’t even know them.”
“It’s such a big house even…” She had to stop herself to catch her breath. I didn’t have a handkerchief or anything, so I sat next to her and wiped her sobs away with my sleeve. “…even…even with children in it.”
She broke down completely before I could object. Which, I had to admit, was fine.
I wasn’t going to deny her the family she’d always wanted.
I wasn’t going to deny her anything.
If you loved the Drazens, you'll love the Edge Series. Four intense, sexy books and a free prequel, all releasing in the three month window.
Get them HERE
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If I'm new to you and you want more kinky, hot sex with a touch of darkness and off-the-charts intensity, start with Submission HERE
About the Author
CD Reiss is a New York Times bestselling author. She still has to chop wood and carry water, which was buried in the fine print. Her lawyer is working it out with God but in the meantime, if you call and she doesn't pick up she's at the well hauling buckets.
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Born in New York City, she moved to Hollywood, California to get her master
's degree in screenwriting from USC. In case you want to know, that went nowhere but it did give her a big enough ego to write novels.
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She's frequently referred to as the Shakespeare of Smut which is flattering but hasn't ever gotten her out of chopping that cord of wood.
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If you meet her in person, you should call her Christine.
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Text--> cdreiss to 77948 to get a notification whenever I have a new release!
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The Color of Love
Julie A. Richman
First meeting in summer camp as teens, cocky NYC doctor and sexy southern belle push each other's boundaries of love and acceptance, as they discover the true color of love.
All rights reserved.
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© 2018 Julie A. Richman
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Without limiting the rights under copyright(s) reserved above and below, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior permission of the copyright owner. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
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The scanning, uploading, and distributing of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Brief passages may be quoted for review purposes if credit is given to the copyright holder. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Author’s Note (Please Read)
Hello Readers:
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Thank you for purchasing Cocktales and supporting the author community.
Following is the first four chapters of The Color of Love, a new work set for release in late 2018.
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This book is a saga that spans a fifteen-year period. The reason I’m mentioning this is because the beginning of The Color of Love is set when the H/h, Bray and Misty, first meet as teens in summer camp. Please note that this is not a YA book, although in the first four chapters, you will only see them as teens. The majority of the completed book will take place during their adult years.
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Soooo . . . enjoy getting started (a little early) on my upcoming release.
Stay Cocky and keep reading!
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Peace & Love,
Julie A. Richman
The sky is blue
The lake is blue
We’re gonna turn the white team blue
What’s the color of Color War?
Blue, Blue, Blue
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~ Chant of the Blue Team
Color War
Camp Tonkawa
Summer of 2000
That Summer…
One
Bray
The first time I laid eyes on Misty Davis, I realized just how white I wasn’t. It was not merely the peachy glow of her sun-kissed skin or the natural highlights in her long blonde hair, it was something else. Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
She was a new camper at Camp Tonkawa, and this girl was impossible not to notice. I’d been catching glimpses of her over these first few days of camp and now she was starting to invade my thoughts. Not a typical thing for me. I’d already learned two things about her. Her name was Misty she was from somewhere in the South.
Overhearing her talking to some fellow campers, I was totally amused by her slow Southern drawl. It was the only accent like it in the entire camp, which was all kids from the Northeast.
I wondered what this new girl was doing here in Maine. These clearly were not her stomping grounds. It was not only her speech and the way she accented her words, saying SEE-ment instead of cement or JEW-lie instead of July, it was what I’d observed of her mannerisms and the way she carried herself, that made her stand out. I’d never met another fifteen-year-old girl who possessed such natural grace. That was, unless, as I’d also witnessed over the past few days, she was on any kind of playing field. It didn’t matter if it was a soccer field, baseball diamond, or an archery range, the girl was a fierce competitor, kicking ass and taking no prisoners. She became so focused only on the win that her femininity transformed into an almost feral ferocity.
I was finally seeing her up close for the first time when our groups were in a co-ed Tug-of-War match. Positioned three back from the center knot, she was the second girl in the formation on the opposing team. Our eyes met before the ref even called for us to start, and they remained locked until my team took hers down and her entire line did a face plant into the sandy pit.
When she got up, anger flashed in her expressive blue eyes and stayed there as she dusted the sand from her shirt. I couldn’t help but smile at her, which unfortunately went unreturned, stinging my ego more than anything.
Over the next few hours, our groups kept crossing paths and I could feel her eyes on me, observing as if I were a new species that needed examination. I decided that she needed a closer look.
The girls from her bunk were all friends of mine from years past. A few had been former make-out partners, who’d been instrumental in helping me perfect the art of French kissing. And one had been more to me.
Sauntering over to their lunch table in the dining hall a few hours later, I was warmly welcomed with squishy hugs from her bunkmates.
“Bray!” Several girls greeted me in a simultaneous chorus.
I had a girl in each arm when Misty looked up from her salad. A salad? Almost everyone else at the table had been chowing down on burgers and dogs, but not Misty. What made her choice even more odd was that she was picking through the lettuce and removing anything that was yellow.
She was eyeing me as if she were seeing a new species, and maybe for her, I was. To everyone else at Camp Tonkawa, I was just Bray Hamilton, fifth-year camper, New York City boy, Dalton student, son of a prominent cardiac surgeon father and a socialite mother, who was the daughter of the infamous finance scion Richard Morgan van der Heyden III.
With her friends still hanging on my limbs like Christmas ornaments, I needed to build that bridge between us. It began with a smile. “Hi. I’m Bray.”
She nodded and gave me a small, shy smile that slammed my heart like a fastball finding its way home into the worn webbing of a catcher’s mitt.
“Nice to meet you, Bray. I’m Misty.”
Those words, the way she pronounced my name, dragging it out into nearly two syllables, had m
y head swimming.
And although the aquatic center had always been a second home to me, in this instance, I knew I was drowning.
Two
Misty
His skin was the color of Kraft caramels, those little squares that they keep in bins at Kroger’s. Mother would always swipe my hand when I’d sneak them out, but if I were really lucky, I’d pop one into my mouth, let it melt for a moment, and give the flavor a chance to spread across my tongue before chewing it.
Just looking at him had me tasting that sweetness on my tongue. His sweetness. And I felt uncomfortable.
He had held my gaze throughout the whole Tug-of-War, and I could see his eyes were pale, and from a distance they had looked green, and I just wanted to see them close-up. When he had smiled at one of his teammates, laughing at something the other guy had said, I had stopped breathing. Even from a distance, that smile, with his beautiful even white teeth and deep dimples, was mesmerizing. I had know
n I needed to get a closer look. I’d never seen a boy so beautiful and exotic-looking or had felt so physically drawn to someone.
Later, as my bunkmates and I walked to the dining hall after our defeat, they were all abuzz about a boy named Bray.
“He’s gotten so tall and more handsome, if that’s even possible,” Ashley said before sighing. Literally.
“I know, and did you see his chest and arm muscles? He’s been spending some serious time in the gym.” Becca turned to Ashley. “And that smile just slays me. You’re right, he’s handsome. He isn’t cute, he’s already handsome.”
I just had to know. It had to be that same guy.
“Who are y’all talking about?” I asked, feeling like more of an outsider than I already was with this group of girls who’d summered together for years.
“Bray Hamilton,” Ashley informed me as if I should know.
“I don’t know who that is.” I let her know as we climbed the last hill to the dining hall.
“Misty, he was a few back on the other side—tall, dark-skinned, black hair, and the most gorgeous smile in the world.”
Pretending I hadn’t noticed, I just shrugged and shook my head.
“I’ll point him out in the dining hall. He is so hot, and the crazy thing is that he’s really a nice guy, too. Most handsome guys are total douchecanoes, but Bray is such a good guy.”
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