Crown and Anchor Series: Book 1-4

by Kerri Ann

  Being careful with my footing, I venture further away from the house, hoping that this ankle guard dog will let me. Checking it every so often, the light doesn’t change in its blinking, doesn’t change color, and there’s no sound associated, which I’m assuming means I’m in the clear to traipse around our whole property.

  Halfway down the trail, about fifty feet above the water, we have a stilted deck. It has a retractable covering and a lockable, drainable box that holds folding zero gravity patio chairs. Only in really awful weather does the sea lick the beams, but as a precaution, we make sure nothing can be swept out to sea.

  Leaving my cell phone up on the deck, I walk down until I reach the shoreline. Kicking off my sandals, I take up residence at my favorite place to think. Whenever anything was a mess as a kid, when I was having a bad day on the track, or I’d just had enough of my big brothers kicking my ass, I’d hide out down here on this sea worn rock to think away all the world’s problems. Nothing was resolved, but it was therapeutic to think I was in control of the mess I’d made. With the disaster that has befallen me now, I think I need this rock more than ever.

  Kicking back, soaking the sun into my soul, I breathe in the release I need. I can’t blame the officer for anything that’s happened. He wasn’t an instrument of my controlled freefall. To be honest, he’s been more the kite slowing me down before I hit rock bottom. He’s stopped me from turning into a Lindsay Lohan or Miley Cyrus. And to have company other than Cassidy or Ciccero may be a gift. Not to mention, he’s sexy as hell to look at.

  Clearing my mind, I sit back on the rock and allow all the stress to drain away into the warm water that’s licking my feet.

  RISEN

  “Yes, sir. Yes, I’m here. Thank you for the call,” I say to the court-appointed officer that had to check in on my arrival. They added a ‘find my phone’ app to my cell so that they can confirm my whereabouts daily. I must call in every six hours, whether it’s needed or not, and I have to have my cell on me at all times. Fucking rots to be imprisoned when I’m the good guy. This time, at least, I am the good guy.

  After I’d settled my things in and wandering the vacant halls, I’d found the saunas, as well as the expansive and well equipped gym. With its heavy bag, free weights, TRX systems, and elliptical machines, I left to study the rest of the wing. Finding the laundry facilities, an elevator, and two reading rooms, that were both full of books. Each utterly opposite in design and volumes, it was wild to see one that was setup like a nineteen-twenties smoking den, stuffed to the brim with first editions, wooden upholstered armchairs, a two-story hearth, and a massive set of animal antlers. Definitely manly. The second room was more modern, housing newer books like mysteries, teen books, and two overstuffed beanbag chairs. Personally, I liked the modern one for the bean bag chairs, but I’d move it over to the darker, more mysterious room where I could curl up by the fire with a whiskey and a Donnie Darko comic book. Scouring the shelves in the modern one, looking for them on the off chance that they might be there, the only things I found were a few hidden porno mags at least ten years old.

  Later, I’ll be back to pull down a book or two to enjoy and soak up. This is so different from my parents’ house. Dusty old books aren’t modern or clean. Therefore, not allowed.

  After my little excursion, I headed for the kitchen, looking into the selection of protein available. Fuel is needed to keep up this size. Eating frequently and high in nutrients is what keeps me going without headaches and muscle loss. A month without it would mean months of work to build it back up.

  Entering the massive kitchen, I find an older woman stirring a pot of something that smells like heaven should. My mother never cooks, so there’s no need for pots and pans. I’d learned over the years to accept the lack of scents that cloyed at your nose. My childhood memories were of home cooked meals and baking. Well, to a point they were.

  I step heavily, so as not to surprise her. “That smells amazing, whatever it is you’re making,” I say as I walk further into the room.

  Turning, the woman gives me a warm and caring smile. “Have a seat. You can be the first to try it if you’d like, Officer.”

  “Risen will be fine.” Pulling the heavy metal chair away from the expansive center island, I take a seat.

  “Well, Risen, I’m Cassidy. Do you like curry?” Turning back to the cupboards, she takes a bone white bowl from the shelf.

  “To be honest, I’ve never tried it. What’s it like?”

  “Sweet, spicy, tangy, and full of love.” Opening one of the pots, spooning out sticky rice, she recovers it, lifting the lid off a large pot that smells scrumptious. Pouring a ladle full of the creamy pumpkin colored mix overtop of the rice, she walks the filled bowl toward me, as I sit patiently, waiting to try it. “Careful now, it’s a bit thick if you aren’t used to hot things. Take it slow.”

  Smiling, I pull the bowl closer and inspect it. There’s plump chicken pieces floating within flowery scents. Tight racy spices make the inside of my nose burn a bit, but that houses a soft coconut back. Lifting a spoonful up, I blow on it. Taking it to my lips, I test the heat before pulling the full amount in. “Mmm, this is amazing,” I say through a mouthful of the delicious concoction.

  “Go slowly. There’s fire in the back, son.” I feel the zesty sensation right as she finishes the sentence. It’s not steaming, though it’s flavorful.

  Enveloping spoonful after spoonful, I watch as Cassidy works around the space with the glee of a person who enjoys cooking and caring for people. Her accent is most definitely from the Caribbean. More than likely Jamaica or one of the West Indies Islands, but her style doesn’t reflect the same. Her long, weaved braids hang low beyond her ample bottom. Her makeup is understated. Her Gucci beige slacks and blue Copper Beans wispy shirt put her look in total contradiction. But it works. Or, at least, I’ll never say otherwise if she cooks like this for me over the next month.

  “This is fantastic. Thank you.”

  “No problem at all.” She waves off the compliment. “You’re looking after my little girl. If feeding you is what I can do to assist in your stay, I’ll make you your favorites in every meal.”

  Grinning, she wipes her hands on her pristine apron and turns back to her pots as I continue to eat. Before I know it, I’ve eaten it all, the bowl almost sparkling white once more.

  “That was fabulous. Thank you, Cassidy,” I say, setting the spoon and napkin down on the counter. Without a break, she pulls it close, rinses it, and places it in the industrial-sized dishwasher.

  As she works around the room, I ask the question that’s burning in my mouth. “Will I be alone all the time?”

  “Sadly, I believe so. Miss has been very quiet, pulling away from everyone since her father and mother passed. It’s been difficult. I understand it and I...” She pauses and closes her mouth into a tight thin line, thinking before she speaks again. “Miss will be fine, I’m sure. Do you have any requirements or requests for meals?”

  “If all are like that, I won’t starve. Honestly, I’ll gain weight and it won’t be pretty.”

  “I doubt that a bit of good food would cause you issues, sir.”

  “Risen,” he corrects her with a smile.

  “Risen,” Cassidy says, smirking into her hand, rubbing her forearm across her forehead. “Now scoot, I have work to do.”

  “Yes ma’am.” Rising up, I turn and walk away toward the rearmost area of the house that I’ve yet to venture near. Even though there’s two floors up and one down, this side is technically only one floor.

  The vaulted ceilings in the grand room, hallway, staircase and kitchen are expansive, but built with comfort in mind. Just like the differences in the two reading rooms, the independent styles are melded in every surface with an oversized black leather sectional, dark woods, industrial lamps, plush rugs, deep russet flooring, and all with burnished concrete accents.

  There are pictures of the Crown family, of kids growing up, trophies and past accomplishment
s. The walls are floor to ceiling glass, with sliding sections that open to allow the outside in. One is slightly open, allowing the soft sea breeze to enter and it calls to me.

  Just outside that door rests the life-threatening concrete and asphalt concourse, waiting for its next contestant. What I wouldn’t give to tear that shit up. Maybe while I’m here, I might get a chance to give it a shot, but not without permission from the absent Miss Crown. There’s no way I’d step on her track without consent. Sure, I’ve never been one to follow all the rules, hence the suspension, but I’m still not an asshole. This track holds memories that I must tread lightly around. That doesn’t mean I won’t go near it. It just means I won’t drive a motorized devil on it.

  What’s that saying? Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned? I’ll keep that in mind at all times, considering this is her domain.

  Stepping out into the sweltering afternoon sun, I take in the heat as it pressurizes my lungs. Stepping down the long steps, advancing on the track, the heat rises off the blacktop in swirling tense auras. Gripping the heated edge where the concrete of the track meets asphalt, it sends shivers up my spine. It’s funny, really. You can feel the tension. The track wants its family back. I understand that.

  Jax, Casper, and Doll Crown have all rode on this, tearing it to pieces or breaking bones on the curves, but now the grounds are devoid of its inhabitants, and it’s both spectacular and saddening all at once.

  Hopping over the stanchion, the heat licks the bare skin of my legs, exciting me. The pavement begs to be used in any way. Pulling back on my left, then right, I stretch out the muscles and enjoy the burning sensation of my quads elongating. Once I’ve adequately pulled out every knot and tense angle, I begin to jog the track. Lightly at first, then getting into a rhythm, I step comfortably until my breathing settles into a happy beat. Before speeding up to my usual pace of a five-minute mile, I’m gleeful. To have a track like this to beat on every day, I think I’ll definitely feel despondent when it’s gone.

  For now, I’ll use this up like a slowly emptying beer.

  CHINA

  When I woke today, the sun was shining, the birds were calling each other in the grand palms, and I was ready for day nine of my incarceration. With the first few days out of the way, I think I’ve done a marvellous job at avoiding the good officer. By staying to my end of the building and having Cassidy bring in every meal, I’ve been flicking through various TV series’ like candy. Plus, I’ve caught up on world news, avoiding anything about myself.

  I’ve relaxed. Well, honestly, I can’t call it relaxing per say, as I’ve sequestered myself to one hallway in my own home.

  Picking up my coffee, I sip on the lovely Hawaiian filtered beans as I snack on toast and honey. I feel like a bit of a voyeur. With the patio doors open to the light of day, I watch as he finishes up his fifteenth set of laps in the pool in the past two hours. His lean, muscular body passes through the water cleanly, hardly leaving a wake as he passes back and forth. He’s fluid and sleek, his pace is consistent, and it’s a joy to watch. First it’s butterfly, then backstroke, scull, crawl, and front stroke, before flicking back to a flawless butterfly, without taking a break. Admitting that I’m finding Officer Mason a contradiction to everything I’d envisioned, I should’ve known not everything in L.A. is what you think it is.

  I’ve flicked through social media links daily. Hell, hourly, looking for anything that would indicate that he’d prove me right about his intentions. I expected posts like At Doll’s house. Who’s jealous? Or something obvious, like a picture of the place. Even a caption of me in an ankle monitor with drool as I slept in a chair, but there’s been nothing. He’s a gentleman, and I find that sexier than anything else I’ve seen about him thus far.

  Leaning back on my lounger, taking in the view, I soak in the rays. As Officer Mason rises out of the water at the shallow end to stand with his back to me, I watch as he slicks his hands through his hair and pulls it back, down his nape. I find myself eyeing every inch of his lovely form.

  Pulling up out of the pool, the water trickles down his shirt, across his shorts, and down his long muscular legs. It’s funny that he wears a shirt in the pool, but I guess he’s hiding the tattoos that Harlow told me about. Grabbing a towel off the chair, he scratches it along his legs and down his shirt, before rubbing it roughly against his head and draping it across his shoulders. Shaking out his hair, I’m mesmerized by his automatic ministrations.

  Everything is the same every day. He rises early and swims from five thirty to almost eight before hitting the gym. Cassidy told me he has the same routine at breakfast with four eggs, and almost a pound of bacon and sausage links. He then runs the track for an hour or so before returning to his room, where I assume he showers and dresses. That’s when he returns to the kitchen and eats an even larger meal than the last. What I’ve yet to find out, though, is what he does after that. He disappears. The house is pretty big, and even though it has some hiding places, it’s not big enough that he can hide that large frame.

  So, why am I so scared of a conversation with him? How is he fairing during his judge inflicted incarceration at Casa Crown? Is he missing his life? His freedom? His personal space? After our last encounter at the courthouse, the one I don’t even remember, we haven’t spoken. I haven’t been within a ten-foot radius of Risen Mason.

  Cassidy thinks he’s fabulous. She’s mentioned it almost every time she brings me a meal or my clean clothes. Risen this, Risen that. Did you know that Risen...blah, blah, blah. And to make matters worse, I’ve had nonstop texts and phone calls from Harlow, Hallette, Wyatt, and Cathryne. It’s so bad that I’ve actually had to shut my phone off for a bit of peace and quiet.

  Admitting the downside of hiding out in this wing is that some of my favorite areas are down by his. It’s pissing me off that I’m being such a baby about staying away. I should just man up, so to speak, and talk to him. Really, the man helped me out of a major bind that could have gone so horribly wrong. He even put his money where his mouth is, sequestering his own ass to my home without any inclination of payment, social gratification, or status jump. I still find myself wondering why he would do this.

  Checking him out online, the only thing that popped up was info about his L.A. Police force job. There, standing loud and proud in his class picture at the back, is the quiet patrolman, Risen Mason. I must have stared at it for hours, but there was nothing more. The internet was devoid of information, which pissed me off. No one in L.A. is empty online, so it intrigues me even more. Who looks after his publicity? They must have some pretty heavy influence to blank out everything. Even our joint incidents that hit the paper have disappeared.

  Walking back into my suite, finishing the cup of coffee, I place it and my plate on the tray and head for a shower. I guess if I want to know more about Risen Mason, the only way to do that is to ask. To do that, I have to leave the goddamn room and exit this hallway.

  Starting the water, I pace back and forth in front of the counter, talking to myself. “This is stupid.” Stepping into the water, I let it trickle down, invigorating my resolve. “Stop being such a pussy. You kick ass on the track, but you’re fucking afraid to talk to the cop that saved your ass.” I’m a grown ass woman, talking to myself.

  “Fuck this,” I mutter fruitlessly. “I need a fucking party.”

  That’s it! I totally need a party. But what about the good officer? Will he be a wet blanket and halt the festivities?

  What does it matter?

  Screw him. It’s not as if I’m leaving the house, and he’s still here to keep an eye on me. I’m keeping to the stipulations of my house arrest, it’ll just be on a larger than life scale.

  Shit. Why am I worrying about what he thinks anyway? He can hide in his wing if he doesn’t like it.

  Stepping out after I’ve finished, I text the girls. Each of them answer ecstatically for the chance to let off a bit of stress at Casa Crown. God dammit, we’ll plan out one of the best birthday par
ties that the city has ever seen.

  And that’s saying a lot for Hollywood.

  RISEN

  “This is delicious. Thanks again,” I tell Cassidy. She’s kept me well-fed without debate or condemnation for the amount I ingest.

  “Risen, I’ve told you before, I have expectations.” Cassidy says as she pulls two more eggs off the griddle, adding them to my plate.

  “Then I’ll just have to try harder,” I say, speaking around a mouthful of juicy blood orange.

  It’s day nine, and I’ve explored every inch of that library that I saw on the first day. For sure, I was impressed with the volumes on motor racing, of which were expected in this house, but the stacks and stacks of books about sea creatures, horses, elephants, and Savannah wildlife was extensive. The books were earmarked and worn, with various splatters of nondescript foods across their well-loved pages. Even though they are located in the more opulent and luxurious room, they seem to be something that the kids read as they grew up. They were excessively loved.

  “Do you have any plans today?”

  Picking up another forkful of soft, creamy eggs, I nod and swallow before answering. “Usual, I guess. I wouldn’t mind getting out for a few errands, but I doubt China would be up for it.”