“Yeah, right. She looks like a whore.”
“Have some respect, asshole.”
Ama frowned. They hated Jackson as much as she did. Maybe they would help her …no. Don’t be stupid. You’ve just killed their money maker. When they had passed, she tracked back where they had come from and followed the hallways back past the room where Jackson lay dead, then toward the room where she and Selima were held. Something told her this was the right way. She felt a pain shooting through her—a cramp, or maybe her wound had opened up. She glanced down to see blood soaking her bare skin, remembering she was only clad in her underwear. What a fucked-up situation. She nearly giggled, a hysterical reaction to the circumstances.
“Stop right there, beautiful, or you’ll force me to put a bullet in that gorgeous body.”
Ama froze. Shit. Stupid woman. You lost focus. She turned slowly to see one of the guards aiming his pistol at her. “Put the knife down, sweetheart.”
She dropped the knife, raising her hands.
“Where’s Jackson?”
Ama swallowed. No way out now. “Dead. I killed him. So, do what you want to me. He’s dead and I’m fucking glad.”
The guard looked surprised, then grinned. “Good. Then maybe I can have some fun with you before I kill you, gorgeous.”
He had started to approach her when Ama heard the shot. She felt the rush of air over her head and saw the bullet hit the guard straight in the forehead. He dropped like a stone and Ama spun around …to see her love, her Enda, his gun still raised. She couldn’t believe it. Enda lowered the gun and handed it to Raff, who was smiling at her. Enda walked slowly at first, then as Ama started to run toward him, he started to run too and swept her into his arms. Ama was sobbing now, not caring who heard them. Enda kissed her face and her hair, his voice breaking as he told her he loved her over and over.
“Guys, we have to go. Now.” Raff looked apologetic, but Enda nodded. Still carrying Ama, they raced back towards the entrance. As they reached the door, shots rang out, barely missing them, and they threw themselves outside and ran.
Spotlights flooded the area, then, and they blinked in the lights. Chaos ensued. F.B.I. Agents took them to safety, and soon Ama and Enda were in an ambulance racing towards Fresno and a hospital.
At the hospital, a doctor examined her as Enda went to call Olivier. Ama grabbed the doctor’s hand. “I’m pregnant,” she whispered,” No one knows. Can you tell how far along I am?”
The doctor, a kind looking woman, smiled. “We’ll run some tests. Discreetly,” she added. “In the meantime, you’re going to need a minor surgery to help you heal.”
Later, Enda came back, and they enjoyed some alone time, finally. Enda hugged her tightly. “God, to think I nearly lost you.”
Ama relaxed into his arms. “It’s over now, baby. We can be happy.”
“Damn right.”
They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes before Ama looked at him, her eyes serious. “I killed Jackson. Your brother.”
“Half-brother. And fuck him. The world’s a better place.”
“Do you think Olivier thinks so?”
Enda swept her hair away from her face. “Cara mia, Olivier loves you. You did what you had to do to survive. He knows you did the right thing.”
“He’s grieving, though?”
Enda nodded. “Just for the idea of a brother, rather than Jackson, I think. But believe me, he’s one-hundred percent behind you.”
Ama sighed. “I can’t wait to get out of here.”
“The minute we do, I’m marrying you.”
Ama laughed. “Well, you’d better.”
“Knock, knock.” It was the doctor from earlier, who smiled at her. “We’ve run the tests.”
Ama felt her heartbeat quicken. “How many?” Months, she asked silently, and the doctor nodded.
“Three.” And she grinned. Ama burst into tears, smiling through them. Enda was utterly confused.
“What’s going on?”
The doctor smiled again and left the room, closing the door behind her. Ama couldn’t speak from relief and joy, but finally, when Enda was starting to look worried, she held his face in her hands, her eyes shining, and told him that in six months, he was going to be a father and their life as a family could really begin
The End
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Rockstar Untamed
A Single Dad and a Virgin Romance
Rockstar Bodhi Creed is blindsided when his ex-girlfriend, Gemma, turns up with a six-year-old son, Tim, and tells Bodhi that it’s his turn to play house with his son. Completely out of his depth, he none-the-less tries his best to juggle his superstar career with his paternal duties, but his son is reluctant to bond with him.
Sailor King is working as an assistant to a Hollywood agent, Maurice Winston, unhappily. Her boss is a leach and a creep, and the day he gropes her, she retaliates by slapping him. To her horror, the incident is witnessed by the incredulous Bodhi, who, to her surprise, backs her up and fires Maurice as his agent. Maurice vows to destroy Bodhi’s career and tells Sailor she’ll never work in Hollywood again. She shoots back that that would suit her fine. Bodhi tells them both Sailor has already got herself hired by him.
Sailor starts her new job as Bodhi’s assistant, but soon gravitates to caring for Tim, with whom she finds common ground. Both were the product of a one-night stand and both lead confusing childhoods. But Sailor hides a bigger secret; less than a year ago, she escaped from a cult in which she had been raised and still carries the scars of that experience with her. She is still freaked out by the concept of freedom, but also chaffs against any kind of control. Looking after Tim gives her a sense of stability and under her care, the boy starts to thrive.
Bodhi, whose reputation as a man-whore is well-known, is grateful to the young woman and is drawn to her, but Sailor keeps him at a distance. He doesn’t blame her, he revels in his promiscuity, but he also makes the decision to spend more time with Tim, and by extension, Sailor. Soon, the two of them begin to be more than friends and when their relationship goes to the next level; Sailor confides her past to him as well as one more surprising revelation: she is a virgin.
Chicago, Illinois
January
Bodhi Creed breathed in the scent of the crowd; sweat, excitement, almost frenzied adoration. He stood at the front of the stage, taking in the love of his fans as he finished his song, putting everything into the final few chords. His voice soaring and dipping with perfect pitch. He knew he could make people shiver with the sound of his voice. He finished the song and took his final bow, taking his time to wave to the crowd as he left the stage, his whole system flooding with adrenaline. Who needed drugs when performing could make you feel like this? He grinned to his crew and his band as he walked back to his dressing room, thanking each of them personally.
There was a reason people loved Bodhi Creed. It wasn’t just that he had pulled himself out of a hellish path from a drug-fueled death during his early career or that his face could sell anything as much as his singing voice. It was that he was genuinely a humble man, offstage and on. He had his demons, what rock god didn’t? But now, nearing forty, he still appealed to fans of all ages.
Bodhi walked back to his dressing room, pushed the door open and almost choked. Poppy, his personal assistant of two months, had been ‘cleansing’ his space again, burning sage and wafting it around the windowless room. She grinned at him. “Hey, boss.”
She had bright pink hair, tattoos up and down her arms, and wore clothes that would make a fetishist blush. She looked like a real rock goddess, Bodhi smiled fondly at her more than he ever did.
God, he was tired. This had been the last date of the tour that had lasted well over a year, and he was exhausted, drained, ready for some down time. Bodhi knew himself, it was times like these he would have, back in the day, reached
for the bottle or the white stuff. The thought of cocaine now made him feel sick. Jimi Hendrix, Layne Staley, Scott Weiland, Shannon Hoon, he used their names as a mantra to stay away from drugs now, even when he was depressed.
Now as he ran his hand through his dark curls and slumped down onto the sofa, a cold soda in hand, he looked for respite in other ways. His good friend, Claudio Fonseca, an artist, had invited him to go stay at his farmhouse in the Tuscan hills for the summer, picking olives and chilling out. Bodhi couldn’t wait. Two months of Italian sun, wine, food and relaxation in the company of good friends. He could see his mom at her home in Florence. Bodhi longed to go back to Italy. His American father had brought the family over to America just after Bodhi had been born, and growing up in Seattle, Bodhi had longed to know the place he had come from. When his dad died, his mom sold her house and went back, begging Bodhi to go with her. But by then, he was a star, and he needed to be in Los Angeles for his career.
He looked up as the door opened and Franklin, the theater manager, stuck his head in.
“Sorry to interrupt, Bodhi, but there’s a kid out here to see you.”
Bodhi was surprised. A kid? Usually, his groupies were nubile young women. “Show them in, please. Thanks, Frank.” He always, always took the time to talk with his fans, despite how tired he was, without them, he was nothing.
A kid with dark curls, not older than ten, pushed shyly into the room, and Bodhi got up to greet him. “Hey there, what’s your name, kiddo?”
The kid blinked his huge green eyes up at Bodhi, seeming dumbstruck. Bodhi didn’t see the woman who had entered behind the child until she spoke softly.
“His name is Tim, Bodhi.”
Bodhi, recognizing the voice immediately, looked up, and a shock ran through him.
“Gemma?”
The blonde woman smiled at him. “Been a long time, hasn’t it?”
Bodhi stared at her, still stunned to see his former lover. She was Bodhi’s senior by five years, had not dulled her beauty, but there was a haunted, desperate look in her eyes.
“Must be about ten yea…” Bodhi broke off, realization dawning, and he gazed down at the young boy standing between them. Dark hair, bright green eyes. Bodhi’s eyes. There really was no question.
Gemma looked at him, her eyes filling with tears as she watched him put the pieces together. “I’m sorry to do this to you, Bodhi…I really am. But I’m not doing so well. I need to go away for a while, alone. And I thought it’s time. It’s time for Tim to know his daddy.”
Bodhi’s whole body felt as if he’d been hit by a sledgehammer as he gazed down into the face of his son.
Miami, Florida
Sailor King followed her minder through the mall. It was cool, almost chilly, inside the spacious building, but Sailor didn’t mind. Even January in Florida was too hot for her. Her dark hair stuck to her forehead and to the back of her neck. Monica, her minder, gave her an annoyed look.
“What’s wrong with you today? You know Bartholomew will punish me if we’re more than two hours. We haven’t even found your wedding dress yet.”
Sailor stared back at Monica blankly. She felt so tired lately, so hopeless that she had stopped taking the anti-depressant tablets they had given her all her life, and now she felt as if her brain would go mad. She didn’t want this, didn’t want to be married to a man more than twice her age. She knew within the ranks of the organization that she was ‘lucky.' Other girls were clamoring to be partnered with Bart Foy, their leader, their captain.
But Bart had chosen her. She had known the unease of his lascivious gaze on her body; her curves, her flat belly, her full breasts since she was a teenager. He had held her face in his hands when she was just fourteen, an entire decade ago. It had been decreed, she would be his new wife when she reached the age of womanhood, in their ideology, it would be her twenty-fifth birthday, which was in a few weeks.
Bart Foy had been married twice before. His first wife was Tamsin, about whom nobody knew much. They had been married before Bart formed the ‘Children of Love’ commune, deep in the Florida Everglades. His wife had left him after refusing to join him in his ‘mission.’ Bart’s second wife, Clotilde, was a beautiful, loving, Frenchwoman with dark brown hair tumbling down her back and a sweet nature. She had joined the group as a teacher for the children and Sailor had been one of her wards. She had been particularly close to Clotilde, Tilly to those who loved her, and when, one shocking, horrific night, Tilly had been found dead, Sailor had been devastated.
Bart made them all walk past Tilly’s body, laid out on the shrine in their temple. “I want you to look, children. Look what sin can bring.”
Sailor had always wondered what he meant. When she found out, from hushed whispers in the schoolyard, that Tilly had been having an affair with another man, and that she had been stabbed to death, at around eleven, Sailor knew what that meant.
The terror when Bart had chosen her for his next wife had been all-encompassing, but she had buried her head in the sand, thinking the day would never come. Then three months ago, he had summoned her.
“My dearest Sailor, your womanhood is fast approaching, and to me, it seems the perfect time for us to become one. Your birthday will serve as our wedding day, do you understand?”
She nodded, the fear inside overwhelming her ability to speak. Bart smiled and touched her cheek. “Good. Now, I’m afraid we have to deal with a little unpleasantness before you go. As you know, I take my role here very seriously, and in choosing you as my wife, I need you to be an ambassador for us all.” He paused, studying her. “You were very close to Clotilde, I know. She betrayed all of us, Sailor. All of us. Her punishment…well…”
He picked up a folder and handed it to her. “I’m going to leave you alone here for a few minutes to study what’s in that folder. When I return, this matter will be closed. This is what happens when my women betray me, Sailor, understand? That’s the only reason why I’m showing you these photographs.”
Sailor nodded again. “Good girl. I’ll leave you alone.”
He left his office and Sailor heard the lock being clicked from outside. She opened the folder, feeling nausea rise up in her, and a small moan of despair escaped her as she looked at the first photograph. Tilly looked terrified as the two men in the picture held her down, obviously making sure the photographer got a good shot of her. The next photograph made Sailor cry out. The knife was buried deep in Tilly’s stomach, and her face was contorted in agony. Sailor was trembling as she looked through every photograph of Tilly’s murder, each one more stark and brutal than the last. The last image broke Sailor and she whimpered in despair. There was another man now, strapped down to a chair, gagged and bound, his face contorted with grief as he gazed down at his dead sweetheart’s body. Tilly’s lover. They’d made him watch while they killed her. Sailor started to cry. Bart’s meaning was obvious. Step out of line and you die.
It was at that moment that Sailor knew she had to risk everything and escape the only life she had ever known.
Monica was chatting with the saleswoman in the wedding shop. She was used to Monica and Sailor coming now, Sailor had deliberately been picky over her choice, giving herself time to check out the fitting rooms, and any potential escape routes. She’d nearly been foiled by Monica insisting on accompanying her to the fitting rooms. Sailor had used her only weapon, she was Bart’s chosen one. “I don’t think,” she’d told Monica knowingly, “that Bart would be too pleased that you laid eyes on my body before the wedding. I am his, Monica, and his alone.”
Her implied threat hit the mark, and Monica let her change alone. Sailor was careful, never taking too long between changes to reappear but still, she managed to figure out the layout of the store.
Now, she could barely wait. Careful. Careful. She took her time choosing then took the dress with her. It was a huge, completely inappropriate choice, layers and layers of tulle that she would never wear in a million years, but Sailor knew what she was doing. Th
e shirt she was wearing today was too big, plaid and her combat pants. In the many pockets, she had stashed the money she had been saving for the last three months, squirreled away and stolen from the commune’s money cache, a little at a time. Her birth certificate, with only her mother identified on it, and social security number, and any other thing she found in Bart’s office that terrible day, that she could use. She even had a small penknife, tucked in the back pocket of her pants. In all, she only had a couple of hundred dollars, but it was enough for a bus ticket. After that, she’d figure something out.
Monica didn’t even blink as Sailor walked toward the fitting rooms, calling back to her, “I won’t be a sec.”
Monica smirked. That atrocity that Sailor was carrying would take more than a ‘sec’ to change into. Stupid little whore. Lording it over her like she was some special kind of shit. Look how that worked out for Tilly, bitch. She turned back to the saleswoman, who knew all about the commune, all about Bart’s proclivities. Monica had told her all about them one night in bed. The girl, Bettina, had been a good, inexperienced, lay and Monica wouldn’t mind another go around.
The alarm started screeching through the shop, and both women said. “What the fuck?”
“The fire escape door,” Bettina looked terrified as Monica cursed loudly and drew out a blade, darting towards the fitting rooms.
“Fucking bitch…” She saw the fire escape door standing wide open, and the wedding dress dumped in the doorway. “Fucking whore bitch cunt!” Monica screamed, racing down the corridor and around the corner towards the exit, Bettina close behind her. They both trod on the dress in their eagerness to get out, but Sailor had ripped the tulle to shreds, and their feet got caught, tangled, and they both fell. Bettina shrieked as Monica’s knife came way too close to her neck.
Her Dark Melody Page 69