by Devney Perry
With the same grace he had when he played the game, Easton walks off the field, one more time. And when he reaches me, there are tears in his eyes. He struggles to hold them back.
“Surprise.”
“You knew?”
“Of course I did. Congratulations, Hot Shot.”
He sets Fenway down and pulls me in close for a hug.
“Thank you,” he whispers just above the noise of the crowd. “It’s because of you, Scout. Because of you I don’t regret a single thing.”
And when I lean back, his lips are on mine.
He doesn’t care about the thousands of people around us.
Or the two-year-olds clinging to our legs wanting attention.
Or the cameras clicking over our shoulders.
He kisses me as if I’m the only person in the world.
He kisses me with a clear mind and a full heart.
The End
Also by K. Bromberg
Driven
Fueled
Crashed
Raced
Aced
Slow Burn
Sweet Ache
Hard Beat
Down Shift
UnRaveled
Sweet Cheeks
Sweet Rivalry
The Player
The Catch
Cuffed
Combust
Cockpit
Control
Faking It
Resist
Reveal
Then You Happened
Hard to Handle
About the Author
New York Times Bestselling author K. Bromberg writes contemporary novels that contain a mixture of sweet, emotional, a whole lot of sexy, and a little bit of real. She likes to write strong heroines, and damaged heroes who we love to hate and hate to love.
A mom of three, she plots her novels in between school runs and soccer practices, more often than not with her laptop in tow.
Since publishing her first book in 2013, K. has sold over one million copies of her books and has landed on the New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal Bestsellers lists over twenty-five times.
She loves to hear from her readers so make sure you check her out on social media or sign up for her newsletter to stay up to date on all her latest releases and sales: http://bit.ly/254MWtI
Connect with K. Bromberg
Website
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Goodreads
In Peace Lies Havoc
By: Amo Jones
To my Koro, who I lost earlier this year. Who stole me from my mother when I was nine-years-old, booked us flights to Christchurch, New Zealand, and took me to my first ever circus.
I get my rebellious soul partially from him.
Foreword
“Welcome to Midnight Mayem. We are not a circus, we are not a carnival, and the only thing that you should be afraid of losing tonight, is your sanity...”
Introduction
Thirteen years ago, I felt evil. It penetrated my flesh and imprinted its scent into my soul to create a haunting concoction of poison, also known as The Shadow. I would further use this scent to draw out other evil because The Shadow was the worst of the worst. He wasn’t just dark or evil; he was deranged. There was no good in his soul, no droplets of light. He tormented me. Everywhere I turned, he was there to make sure I knew that I’d never be free.
In every dark corner, he would be there. Watching me, waiting. For what? I never knew. But I was about to find out…
Prologue
Dove Noctem Hendry. Cheer captain and most popular girl at Charlston Academy, apparently. People were astounded that I became so popular so quickly in Eureka Springs, Arkansas, even as a small child. We moved here when I was just short of eleven, right after— the incident. The incident was something we didn’t talk about. I mean, my parents and highly paid shrinks could only bring it down to me suffering from PTSD and suppressed memory. It’s all I’d known, which was not much at all. But according to this yearbook, I was the most popular girl at school and a modern-day ballerina. Yearbooks are weird. Like, hey! Here’s a reminder of what might have been the worst years of your life. Mine weren’t bad; they were actually pretty great. I just didn’t like reminders in general.
A knock on the door pulled me out of nostalgia. “Come in!” I yelled, closing the book.
My dad was standing at the threshold, his collar loosened around his neck and a smile on his face. “We’re thinking of getting takeout for dinner. What do you want?”
I fluttered my eyelashes. “Thai!”
Dad nodded his head toward the hallway. “Thai it is. Come on, before your mom starts yelling about your ballerina slippers being left out in the foyer.” Mom complained about everything, but she liked to pick even more when it came to me. I was used to it. When you’d been cultivated by the neglect of your own mother, it’s easy to acclimatize to the callousness of the world.
Her emotional desertion only somewhat stabilized me in a way, making me stronger, and anyway, I was one hundred percent a daddy’s girl.
Climbing off the covers, I dashed into my closet to pull on my Ugg boots. My mom did nothing but stay at home and work on her garden beds, and my father was into political science. He wanted to run for office one day, probably sooner rather than later.
I treaded down the marble stairs, an extra bounce in my step. I had been reciting the cheer that would no doubt take home Nationals, so every single step was a dance step.
“Come on, kiddo.” Dark pulled me under his arm, kissing the top of my head, just as my mom smiled at me, opening the door.
It happened fast.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
I remembered my dad shoving me behind him, and the desperate screams coming from my mom. We all dropped to the ground, my father lying on top of me, his back to my front, shielding me from harm.
“You need to run, Dove. Run.”
I—words were caught in my throat, threatening to choke me.
The door swung open, and four men stood still, all with their guns raised. They were wearing plain black bandanas, and on any other day, I would have thought they were street thugs, maybe wanting money. Until I noticed a couple of them were wearing suits.
The main one tilted his head, and just when I thought he was about to say something, my dad opened his mouth. “Dove is going to leave before you do anything…”
They seemed to think over their next move. Words being silently spoken between the distance of each breath.
“Dove…” My father leaned up onto his elbow, his eyes coming to mine. A dark blue pool that’s deep enough to spill over his cheeks. “You’re going to leave.” His voice was slow. Hushed, but forceful.
I shook my head, not wanting to leave my dad. Not like this. Not ever.
“Little Bird…” he pleaded, tears finally leaking over the edges. “Please.”
He shoved me back, and the first thing I felt was the warm liquid seep through my clothes and stick to my belly. The first thing I smelled was the strong metal slosh of blood. The first thing I heard was the dying screams of my mother. But the last thing I heard before everything went black was his voice.
“We’ll be back, Dovey. I’ll hear you when you speak. I’ll see you where you dance. I’ll always be watching you...” His voice sounded juvenile. Not as old as what I would think they all were due to their size and shadows.
Another man stepped into the pact. This one I felt was older. He was wearing a fedora that shaded his mouth and a cigar was hanging between his lips. “Leave.”
I felt him in places that I shouldn’t have felt. Through foster home after foster home, he was there, existing between the furnishings and oxygen. I could sense him when I thought I was all alone. The Shadow was everywhere I was. It existed between what was real and what was in my mind. It tormented me for what felt like all of my life, and the worst part about being tormented by something you didn’t know, was that you ne
ver knew when that torment would end.
Present
I was fourteen years old when I stopped expecting the world to soften its edges for me and learned to roughen mine instead. I learned that if you find yourself in a dark day, it only means that the sun is about to rise. Well, it was a mantra that I became accustomed to as I was growing up. I had to bring it down to that simple paragraph to strengthen my mind and remind it that I was going to survive. Bouncing from foster home to foster home until you hit eighteen isn’t ideal, but I’m an optimist, so the way I see it, I never had to really rely on anyone.
Not. At. All.
And besides, I’ve managed to keep a fairly positive outlook on life, despite my current circumstances. Once I hit eighteen, I emptied my bank account and hitched a ride way the hell away from where anyone would know me, or where most people like to call Miami Beach. Okay, so it’s not a terrible place to live, and it’s probably one of my favorite places to be, but eventually, I want to bail. Maybe settle in the PNW or somewhere with a little more frost in the air. I prefer cold to the heat.
“Dove!” Richard calls out from behind the bar. I work in a bar right on the outskirts of the city. It draws in the right crowd for good tips. Rich folk who just want to splash some cash.
I raise my eyebrows at him in question, so he continues to jog toward me, his hands shoved into his pockets. “Sorry. I always forget about the speech thing.”
They always assume that because I don’t talk much that I’m incapable of doing so. Humans are so quick to slap a label on someone who doesn’t conform to the norm. I do talk, but I don’t talk much here where I’m scared and shackled to the reality of always being watched. I knew it wasn’t safe. I wasn’t safe. “I’ll hear you when you speak.” I shiver, zipping my leather jacket up farther while slipping my hands into my pockets to keep them warm. “Are you able to work at the bar tomorrow? Jules called in sick, and we usually have a backup, but we can’t get ahold of any of the temp girls.”
I shrug, nodding my head. “Sure!”
“Good!” Richard murmurs. “I appreciate it, Dove.” I watch as his back disappears into the dark room, strobe lights flicking and flashing, cutting through the obscurity like light sabers during a Star Wars movie.
I quickly slip through the thin crowd of people, heading straight for backstage.
“Dove! Hey, girl!” Natasha waves at me from her makeup cubicle.
I nod my head at her, slipping off my clothes until I’m standing in nothing but panties and a bra.
“You up second tonight, boo!” Tash further says, swiping blood red lipstick over her soft lips.
I smile, gathering up my belongings and placing them in my cubicle. I begin on my makeup and hair, making sure I go extra on both. Peering back at myself in the mirror, my lips curl between my teeth. My skin is silky smooth with a natural tan, and my hair is a deep red. Girls used to be envious of my skin because it’s never seen one freckle or imperfection, and unlike most redheads, I don’t burn in the sun; I tan.
I pile my hair onto the top of my head and get started on my makeup. Lining my dark green eyes with black liner, I giggle as Tash begins rapping beside me. It’s what she does to warm up every night. I love Tash, but I feel sorry for her. She has a five-year-old daughter and a shit excuse of a husband. I know that if she could, she wouldn’t work here. I’ve asked a couple of times why she does, but she shrugs me off as if she’s made peace with her fate.
It makes me uncomfortable, and we’re not that close, so I leave it.
Thirty minutes later and I’m ready.
I step out onto the stage, all lights cutting out as a single spotlight flashes on me. Clutching the pole in my hand, “Voyeur Girl” by Stephen starts playing. It’s the song I always open to. Now it’s almost as though the beat and lyrics are inscribed into my bones, orchestrating my fluid movements as I dance around the stage. I lose myself in the music and let my body be taken over by the trance-like sound. I don’t have to look around to know that people are watching. Tash says that men come every night when they know I’m dancing. I don’t know how much truth there is to that because I never pay attention. I know I’m above average. My mom and dad had paid good money all my life to make sure my footing, my temperament, and body remained in sync with whatever music was playing, but aside from that, I have always had a natural wave for dance.
I continue to float around, my body rolling against the pole. I skim my hand down my belly, toward my upper thighs as I bend down, spreading my knees wide and bringing them back together. I slowly open my eyes, but I don’t know why because I never open them. My eyes are always closed, fixed on splashing art against a dark canvas by the waves of my body. But I open them, and they land on a man seated by the bar. I can’t make out his face because he’s wearing a dark hoodie that’s covering most of it. His knees are spread wide as he lounges back against the bar. I may not be able to see him, but I feel him on me. With every thrust of my hips, I feel as though his eyes are caressing the curves of my body. Chills creep over my flesh as I squash the thoughts that are invading my mental space. The song winds down, and sweat pours out from me as I flick my long red hair all around. Gazing back to where the man was, I find him still there, watching me carefully. Everyone fades into the background as the energy surrounding us crackles in the air. I watch as the tip of his cigarette burns like a lit match, calling me to him with every inhale. Smoke clouds gather around him as he exhales. Why can’t I look away?
Even though I can only make out the outline of his eyes, I feel them on me. Eye contact is the language that no one can speak, but chemistry is fluent with; it’s the language of fate. It’s two souls catching on fire without a single word being spoken. I continue dancing to the song until the very last strum before making my way backstage, wanting to see if I can get a closer look at him. Him. There’s an air of familiarity that hovers over his body, enticing me. Or maybe it’s the language that no one speaks, and I’ve suddenly decided to take classes.
“Hey, Dove!” Rich interrupts my thoughts, nudging his head toward me as I make my way to the bar. “The usual?” Rich is a middle-aged man with a full beard. He has two little girls who he raises alone since his wife died in a car accident when they were babies. Richard also owns this bar. Most people would think that some guy who owns a strip joint must be desperate and sleazy, but that’s just not the case. He has three girls who he kept on since he purchased the place from the previous owner a couple of years ago, and that’s not by his choice, because he kicked all the rest of the girls out, wanting to turn this into more of a biker bar—since that’s what he also does—but he knew Tash and I needed the work and the tips. We could have taken on the bar by bartending, but he had already promised the barmaids that they would keep their positions. So he kept Tash, Vane, and me, which worked out perfectly since the three of us get along quite well.
“Yes, please,” I say, my eyes flying around the room to see if Mystery Guy is still here.
He’s not.
My heart sinks a little, so I pick up my vodka, lime and soda and shoot it back, running the cushion of my thumb over my lip to swipe off the residue.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” I slide my empty glass over toward Rich, who runs his hand over his long, scruffy beard.
“Yeah, all right, baby girl.”
I slip to the back of the bar toward the staffing area, grabbing may long coat that drops to my knees, and buttoning it up. I pull my phone and headphones out of my pocket, swiping through Spotify to find a new song. Something I can maybe sweat out to when I go back to my run-down apartment. I love to dance. It’s something that keeps my soul alive and my limbs on fire. Music is the cure to all of my troubles for the exact minutes that it plays. After a while, I push on any song as I’m shoving through the back exit of the bar.
The door slams closed, and I fidget with my phone, ready to walk to the bus stop.
A hand slams over my mouth, shocking me into fight-or-flight. I tear out my earphones,
kicking and screaming to turn around, but the thick body that’s behind me holds too tight, unwilling to let go.
I feel soft lips brush against the lobe of my ear, warmth slithering over my skin. “If you want to break free, Little Dovey, I would advise you not to scream.” His other hand comes up to the front of my throat, and he clenches. “It gets my dick hard, and you don’t want that.”
Dove
I lie on pristine marble flooring, my body jerking with every breath. The room is clean, almost sterile. It’s one large square with cell bars as a door. There’s a diamond chandelier that dangles lavishly from the center of the roof and a single toilet and basin to the back of the room. A ball of fire has sparked inside my chest, its grip refusing to let go. I’m cold. So cold. Goosebumps scatter over my skin in colossal welts, my once tanned skin has now fallen to a sepia white. Grazing my finger over the leftover crumbs from my cookie on the ground, I draw the number twenty-one.
Twenty-one is how long I’ve been here.
The men who visit me usually arrive in fours, but this morning, the man who is seated opposite me is alone. He’s not someone I have seen before now and something tells me there’s a reason why. He’s wearing a black party mask with neon lights attached to it: both eyes are blue crosses. He tilts his head, but doesn’t speak, almost like he’s examining me.
I crawl backward, not wanting to be near him. I can feel him. I felt it when he walked down the corridor. His anger. His antagonism. He picks up the knife that’s beside him, blood dripping off the blade and falling to the once spotless floor. I watch as his finger runs over the red liquid, tainting his skin. Then he suddenly flies to his feet, and I jump, horrified by what might be to come.