The Complete Langley Park Series (Books 1-5)

by Krista Sandor

  Chip jangled the set of keys. “Come on, Monica. We’ve got the gardens all to ourselves.”

  “Bri Bri, you’re a brute,” Andrea laughed as Bryson threw her over his shoulder and disappeared behind a juniper hedge.

  Monica twisted at the chain of her sunflower locket. “Are they always like that?”

  Chip’s hand rested on her back and guided her down one of the garden’s darkened paths. “You’ve never hung out with Andrea?”

  “I’d see Andrea at school, of course, but I’ve never seen her with Bryson, like this.”

  Deep grunts and soft moans filled the night air.

  “Are they…” Monica asked.

  “Fucking?” Chip said, supplying the word. “That would be a yes.”

  Monica was tipsy, but the night breeze helped her focus. She stopped walking and listened.

  Chip came up behind her and grasped her hips. He pulled her to him. “Do you like listening to people fuck?”

  Monica stilled. Chip’s erect penis pressed against her ass. Her breaths came fast, but it wasn’t from arousal. It was fear.

  She squeezed her locket and took a step a forward. “I’ve just never heard actual people doing it. I’ve seen it in movies and TV shows, but never…”

  Something moved in the bushes. She startled and released the locket. It was dark, almost pitch black, but that didn’t matter. She knew the Langley Park Botanic Gardens like the back of her hand. Chip and the prep school squad thought that getting into the gardens after hours required keys. That couldn’t have been farther from the truth. She knew of at least a half a dozen way to sneak in.

  Chip was back behind her. This time, he didn’t leave his hands on her hips. One slid down between her legs while the other squeezed her breast. He smelled of stale sweat, alcohol, and garlic from the pizza. A wave of nausea passed over her.

  “Chip, I don’t think I want to do this.”

  He bent down and kissed her neck. “Do what? We’re not doing anything.”

  She tried to pry his hands from her body, but she couldn’t get them to budge. He was strong, stronger than she was. She’d known this, but she never imagined what would happen if he decided he didn’t want to stop. She hadn’t even considered this. She’d never been around boys without chaperones. There had to have been ten clergymen less than a stone’s throw away during her clumsy first kiss at the school mixer.

  Tonight, however, she entirely on her own.

  “I watched you,” Chip breathed into her ear.

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “You spent the night at my house with Courtney. I spied on you. I watched you in the shower. I saw you lather up and rub your fingers against your pussy. I jerked off to it. It felt fucking fantastic. Ever since then, all I’ve wanted was to sink my cock inside you.”

  It had been a year since she had spent the night at Courtney’s place. Her oma didn’t approve of sleepovers. She only got to go that one time because she had spent the entire day before the sleepover icing all the sugar cookies for the next day’s display. Bile rose in her chest. Her skin crawled. Embarrassment and humiliation washed over her in thick, filthy waves.

  She tried to steady her breath. “Chip, it’s late. I need to get home.”

  “But I’m leaving tomorrow, baby.”

  Monica bristled at the term of endearment.

  His fingers pushed past her panties, and he gripped her hard. His thick digits rooted around like buzzards pecking at a carcass. She elbowed him in the gut, a quick slice of movement. Chip released her, and she turned to face him.

  “I want to go home.”

  She couldn’t make out his expression. The clouds had rolled in obscuring the full moon.

  “I’m not done with you yet, Monica Brandt. Do you know how lucky you are to be with me? This is my last night in town. Do you know how many girls would beg for my cock? I’m fucking Charles Alfred Anderson Wilkes.”

  Monica turned and walked up the path, tears threatening to fall from her eyes. “Go find them, then, Charles, Alfred…whatever. I’m going home,” she said over her shoulder.

  She didn’t hear him behind her. She didn’t hear anything. She glanced around and oriented herself to her surroundings. The high hedges and drooping willows told her she was close to the rarely used north gate entrance. She left the garden’s main paved path and skirted onto a narrow gravel trail that twisted through dense foliage. A twig cracked behind her, and her walk switched into an unsteady jog.

  What was she thinking? She knew Chip’s reputation. Of course, he’d expected her to put out. Tears of shame and embarrassment streaked her cheeks. She let out a sob just as her hands made contact with the heavy wooden door of the north gate. She pushed, but it didn’t move. She glanced behind her. The path was clear. She took a breath and slammed her shoulder into the door. It creaked open a fraction. She looked back. Still, nobody. She released another tight sob. Her shoulder ached. It would surely be black and blue in the morning. She let out a shaky breath, reared back, and hit the door with a savage blow. The hinges whined their protest, but she pushed the door open wide enough to snake through the narrow gap.

  She ran onto the sidewalk. She was on Prairie Rose Drive, the street that ran east to west and bordered the north side of the Langley Park town center. All she had to do was run two blocks west and then head south on Mulberry Drive, and she would be safe at the bakery.

  “It’s going to take you less than ten minutes to get home. You can do it,” she whispered.

  She hurried down the street. The straps of her Mary Jane flats cut into the top of her feet, but she didn’t stop. She checked her watch. It was quarter till eleven. She wasn’t late yet. She turned onto Mulberry Drive. Lampposts dotted the empty street with pools of light. All of Langley Park was at home, tucked safely into their beds. The road was dead quiet. Only the distant sounds of crickets and frogs frolicking near Lake Boley drifted past her on the breeze. But the hum of the nightscape was hardly audible over her tight, punctuated breaths.

  The bakery’s awning came into view. The hanging sign with the words The Little Bakery on Mulberry Drive illuminated in golden light called out to her like a lighthouse to a lost sailor. Her breath caught in her throat, and she released a sob of relief. The city had been making improvements on the brick walkway that separated the sidewalk from the street. A pallet of red brick sat in front of the shop’s front window. All she had to do was run past the pallet and get to the alleyway that ran behind the bakery and unlock the door that led to the second-floor apartment she shared with her grandmother.

  She was almost to the bricks when someone stepped out from the shadows.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Chip growled.

  He grabbed her arm and swung her into the front window. Her face hit the glass. Chip grabbed her hair and twisted his fingers into her jet-black locks. His harsh grip pulled her locket from her neck in a quick snap.

  “Stop! You’re hurting me!” she cried. The words came out cracked and broken. She tried to get away from him, but he pinned her to the glass with his body.

  He leaned in. “You’re the baker’s granddaughter. You’re nothing but a cheap piece of ass. Do you think you’re like me? Do you think you’re one of us? Do you think just because Sacred Heart gave you some sorry-ass scholarship, you could be part of my world? You are nothing but a second-class whore. You’d be lucky to suck my dick.”

  “Let her go, Chip, or I’ll make you regret it.”

  Monica knew that voice. She had heard it for the first time today.

  Now, she would never forget it.

  Chip’s grip in her hair relaxed, and he barked out a laugh. He let her go, and Monica wedged herself between the shop and the bricks.

  Chip picked up a brick from the palate. “Do you have a thing for me, too, Sinclair?”

  Gabe crossed his arms. “You don’t have to be a genius to see that Monica doesn’t want to have anything to do with you.”

  Chip chuck
led, a low, dark rumble. “You want to share her? I know you like her, too. I’m willing to give you my sloppy seconds.”

  Monica wrapped her arms around her body. She looked back and forth for anybody who could help her, but the street was empty. For as long as she could remember, she’d hated how boring it was living in Langley Park. How many nights had she looked out the front window at this very sleepy stretch of road and wished for something exciting to happen—anything to break up the monotony of her life in her grandmother’s bakery. Her gaze bounced wildly from Gabe to Chip to the empty street.

  Gabe held his arms out defensively. “Monica, it’s all right. I’m not going to let him hurt you.”

  She met his gaze. Was he there to help? Chip said he’d made lewd comments about her. Her mind spun, her limbs trembled. The coppery taste of blood and fear invaded her mouth.

  Chip held up the brick. “Let’s see what you do about this, tough guy.”

  He took a step back and hurled the brick into the bakery’s glass front door. An explosion of high-pitched cracks tore through the night air. Tiny pieces of glass ricocheted onto the ground in a waterfall of slicing slivers and piercing sound.

  For a beat, nobody moved. Monica stared at the glass then glanced at Chip. He looked uncharacteristically surprised.

  A sharp whoop, whoop, cut through their frozen numbness. Red and blue lights flashed a few blocks away.

  Chip’s eyes widened. He glanced from her to Gabe. He shot across the street and headed toward the darkened neighborhood that surrounded the town center.

  Monica looked up and met Gabe’s gaze. She felt for her locket, but it was gone.

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Go home, Monica. Get inside.”

  “I don’t… I’m…”

  “Please, Monica,” he said.

  Why was he pleading with her?

  The lights were getting closer, and the police cruiser released another sharp whoop of sound.

  She edged out from behind the pallet and ran to the side of the building. She was just about to make the turn and head into the alley when she saw Gabe bend over and pick up a brick.

  4

  Gabe squinted and slumped in the back of the police cruiser. The morning sun nearly blinded him after spending the night in the Langley Park Police Department’s holding cell.

  “Are you okay, kid?” the female officer driving the car asked. The woman met Gabe’s gaze in the rearview mirror. She was chewing gum. The smell of spearmint was a welcome change from the stink of sweat and piss he’d inhaled all night inside the cold cell.

  Gabe nodded. Exhaustion seeped into every bone in his body.

  After Chip ran, and he knew Monica was safely inside, he dropped the brick and raised his hands in surrender. The police officers were on him in a flash. Guns raised as they yelled for him to drop to his knees.

  Everything moved quickly after that. He was handcuffed and carted off to the Langley Park Police Department. They’d called his father. He’d stared at the entrance to the station for hours, waiting. The old man didn’t show and opted for his son to spend the night in jail rather than come down to the station and pick him up.

  “You better hope Mrs. Becker shows you some mercy, kid. The town’s baker is the one calling the shots now,” the male officer riding in the passenger seat added. He crossed his arms and shared a look with his partner.

  These were the same two officers who had arrested him last night. They’d seen Chip run, but Gabe played mute when questioned about the identity of the second suspect. He’d released a grateful breath when the officer mentioned only two perpetrators. They hadn’t seen Monica. She must have been close enough to the building to have remained obscured from their vantage point.

  He rubbed at a kink in his neck. Why the hell did he pick up that brick?

  Why the hell was he protecting Chip-fucking-Wilkes?

  The answer was simple. He wasn’t.

  Gabe sat up straight. His thighs squeaked against the cruiser’s faux leather seat as he shifted his long legs. He squared his jaw. He was exhausted, but a wave of resolution washed over him. It wasn’t Chip he was protecting. If he had ratted out Chip, the spoiled son of a bitch would have named Monica in a heartbeat.

  After Michael pulled him off Chip, he’d made his cousin drop him off a block away from the basketball courts, and he trailed the prep school crew all night. A spasm of guilt cut through his chest. There was shit he needed to smooth over with Michael, but that would have to come later. He and Michael were blood. They would work it out.

  The officer driving smacked her gum. “We know it wasn’t just you, kid.”

  Gabe remained silent. They were trying to help, but he couldn’t say anything.

  “Do you think she’ll have strudel for us?” the male police officer asked.

  The driver smiled. “If there’s one thing I know about Gerda Becker, it’s that she’s always supported the cops in Langley Park. You know, my mom still has a weekly standing order with the bakery.” The officer stopped smacking her gum. “Man, now that I think of it, she’s had that same order for nearly thirty years. My dad loves Mrs. Becker’s Cinnamon Buttercream Coffee Cake. We had it for breakfast every Saturday morning growing up.”

  “Do you remember that carrot cake she sent over to the station last Easter?” the policemen asked.

  The officer driving cleared her throat and gestured with her head back at Gabe.

  “It was the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” the officer said under his breath.

  The policewoman cracked a smile, but the grin disappeared when they pulled up in front of the bakery. A piece of plywood was secured to the front door, covering the jagged, gaping hole left by the brick. The shards of glass had been swept up, but tiny slivers, left untouched, caught the morning sun and sparkled on the pavement.

  Gabe looked around. Why were they stopping here? His chest tightened when the cruiser stopped in front of the shop. He glanced up at the second level of the bakery. A curtain swished, but nobody was there.

  “I thought you were taking me home.”

  The male officer craned his head back. “Kid, we told you, your fate is in the baker’s hands.”

  Gabe swallowed hard. “What does that mean? I broke the glass. It was my fault. What more is there?”

  The female officer turned and met his gaze. “Mrs. Becker thinks there’s more to all this. She asked us to bring you here before we booked you.”

  This was the first time Gabe had ever been picked up by the police. He didn’t know much about the criminal justice system. But he hadn’t been fingerprinted, and he hadn’t signed anything. He was eighteen—an adult. There was nothing to stop the authorities from throwing the book at him. Case closed. This change of events left him baffled.

  The bakery’s plywood-clad door opened, and Mrs. Becker stepped onto the sidewalk. She wore a starched white apron. Her hair was fashioned into a tight black bun threaded with gray. It was easy to see where Monica had gotten her beauty. Monica and her maternal grandmother shared the same jet-black hair, the same long limbs and lithe frame. Mrs. Becker had to be in her late sixties, but her high cheekbones and full lips gave her a youthful quality. That was until she glanced into the police cruiser and met Gabe’s gaze. Her features pulled tight, and her lips drew together into a severe, disapproving frown. She flicked her gaze from him, softened her features a fraction, and gestured for the officers to come inside.

  “Jesus, kid,” the male officer said on an exhale. He adjusted the collar of his shirt, straightening it out as he looked in the rearview mirror. “I’ve never said this to anyone before, but jail may be easier than what you’re about to endure.”

  Mrs. Becker’s baked confections were legendary in Langley Park. But it was common knowledge that the sweetness of her pastries and cakes didn’t overlap into her stern eastern European demeanor.

  A car pulled up behind the cruiser. The whine of the serpentine belt on its last legs told Gabe who had arrived. The officers got out
of the car, and the male officer opened the back seat’s door and helped him out and onto the sidewalk.

  Gabe’s father stood red-faced on the pavement. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Gabe stared at his shoelaces.

  The female officer gripped Gabe’s elbow, but her touch was more reassuring than harsh. “Mr. Sinclair, we should go inside.”

  While most of Langley Park knew all about Monica’s strict grandmother, the whispered comments and side glances Gabe had lived with for a majority of his life were the constant reminder that this town knew his family’s secrets, too.

  The male officer held the bakery door open, and Gabe entered with the policewoman, Mrs. Becker, and his father close behind.

  Every step of the baking process was visible to anyone who ventured inside the shop. Vanilla and cinnamon scented the air as a mixer hummed in the background. A lighted glass display case created an inverted U-shape in the snug, rectangular retail area. A long butcher block table stretched the length of the space behind the display and divided the work area in half. A three-tiered deck oven lined the south wall of the workspace while a stove and refrigerator sat opposite on the north side of the shop. Copper pans, baking trays, and mixing bowls were poised and at the ready in tidy formations on the shelves lining the back wall above a large sink and industrial dishwasher.

  Gabe searched the work area. An older woman wearing a hairnet pulled a tray of strudels from the top oven and placed the baked goods on the center table. The bakery had a few part-time employees, and Gabe recognized the woman. She glanced up and met Mrs. Becker’s gaze. Monica’s grandmother gave her a slight nod, and the woman went back to work, removing more strudels from the two lower ovens.

  Seemingly satisfied with the pastries, Mrs. Becker turned her attention to the group of people crowded into her small shop. She eyed them like a weathered sea captain acknowledging passengers who had accidentally meandered onto the bridge. “Would anyone like coffee?” Her thick German accent added an element of heft to her rather benign question.