Hey all! I’m going to put the first two chapter/prologues here just to whet the appetite of those who might want to read the second book. I’ll do the same for all the other books as an example of what you can expect. Hope you like it. the link for the book is at the end of this.
Prologue I
Derrick
2006
T
he baby was crying.
Derrick awoke, in that mind-numbing stupor of a man who has spent little time asleep after a long, hard day at work. His mind was foggy, and he reached over to the bed next to him, saying, “Hey, Charity, baby’s up. Get her, will ya?”
The bed was empty. She must have gotten up already, he thought. He rolled back over, trying to get some sleep, but the thin wails from the other room in the single-wide trailer kept up, plaintive and harsh.
“Goddammit, Charity!” he yelled, sitting up in bed. “Give the baby some milk or something!”
There was no answer.
The baby was crying.
He got up, put on some underwear, stood up from the bed, and went to the bedroom down the narrow hall. He heard the baby hiccuping and went into the room. In the darkness lit only by a small Strawberry Shortcake nightlight, he could see the crib, white against the thin light coming through the crack in the window shade. There was no one there.
The baby was crying.
He went to the crib, lifted his two-month-old daughter out, and put her on his chest. She sighed, slowed her snuffling, and molded to his chest. “It’s okay, babygirl,” he said. “Daddy’s got ya.” He rocked her up and down on his chest, went out of the room, and walked toward the kitchen.
“Charity?” he asked again, louder this time, hoping she was in the kitchen. “You getting the formula?” He turned on the light, and the two dim bulbs overhead sprang to life, illuminating the small trailer kitchen.
There was no one there.
“Fucking hell,” he said to the baby. “She was supposed to be home already.” He looked at the clock on the yellow Frigidaire oven. It said 3:27 AM. Charity Morris’s shift at the club ended at two. She was never this late. It usually only took her about ten minutes to cash out her tips and get dressed to come home. And they only lived a few miles away from the Showpalace where she worked as a dancer. Her dancer’s name was Chastity.
He couldn’t think about anything like that right now, though. First things first.
The baby was crying again.
He went to the yellow refrigerator, opened it up, and saw multiple take-out containers, a half-eaten pizza from Angelo’s, and a bottle filled with formula. He took out the bottle, put it in the baby’s mouth, and she took to it instantly, choking a bit on the flow as she sucked hungrily.
She stopped crying for a moment. She was two months old, with bright blue eyes, blonde hair, and a heart as big as the sun. Of course, that’s what dads all think when they look at their daughters. Who knew what she’d turn into when she hit puberty and her teen years, but right now, young Lizzy was a picture of perfection, a beautiful thing he could barely take his eyes off.
He looked around the kitchen and saw the house key sitting on a piece of notebook paper folded in half. “What’s this?” he asked his daughter, who had already sucked down half of the small bottle of formula. He took the key, wondered why it was there, and opened the note.
D–
I’m sorry, I can’t be a mom no more. I met a guy named Richard who said I had natural talent and he could get me in movies. So we gone off to Los Angles, to be in a movie like I always dreamed of. Take care of Lizzy for me. I know you can luv her better than me.
By the way, I took the car cus Richard’s was in the shop and we had to go ASAP, he said. So I’m gone. I’ll send money when I make it big.
C
Derrick looked at the note. He looked at the key. He looked at the note again, thinking it was a joke. Charity had always talked about going out west to be a star, but the girl had zero talent. Everyone knew that. She couldn’t act her way out of a wet paper bag. And who was this Richard guy? A customer? A producer in Newton’s Crossing? Hardly.
“What the fuck!” he growled. “What the actual fuck!?” Elizabeth hiccuped again and looked startled at his outburst. Her mouth lost connection with the bottle’s nipple, and she started wailing again. He tried to get it back in her mouth, and she took it, but then continued crying.
“Come on, baby,” he said, trying to soothe her, “Get it, baby.” He put the nipple back to her mouth, but she resisted. He put her up to his shoulder, thinking only of his concern for his daughter. He patted her back, and she calmed down a bit before letting out a burp and spilling some of the formula on his bare shoulder. He didn’t care.
He went to the door, opened it, and went out. The small driveway was empty. He saw several other trailers down a dirt lane leading out of the Colony Acres mobile home park where he had lived with his girlfriend for a year. His white Ford Escort was gone.
The bitch really had taken his car, the only source of transportation they’d had to get back and forth to work. “God dammit!” he screamed. “Fucking dumbass bitch!”
“Keep it down over there!” yelled a voice from across the street. “Trying to sleep, asshole!”
He went back into the trailer, slamming the door behind him. Lizzie roused into a new bout of fear and started crying again.
He tried to soothe her on his chest, but she wouldn’t stop. “Come on, baby. Come on. Calm down, sweetheart.”
His mind was a twisted jumble of emotions. Anger fought with fear, hate, uncertainty, and a host of others that all blended together to make his heart beat fast with panic.
He took a few breaths to try and calm himself down, but it wouldn’t go away. He felt like he was having a heart attack. He hugged his daughter in his arms against his chest, wet with nervous perspiration. He tried to make himself calm. It wasn’t working. He was pissed and would be so for a long time.
“Shhh… baby,” he said. “It’s gonna be okay.”
But he didn’t feel okay, nor would he for a long time. At that moment, his heart hardened. He knew love for only one girl in his life anymore. And that was his thin, wailing daughter who clung desperately to his chest.
A tear fell down his cheek. “Don’t cry,” he said, more to himself than the baby. “You’re not allowed to cry.” It was a vow he would keep for the rest of his life. There’s no crying in baseball.
But on his chest, the baby was crying.
Bitch,–Alanis Morrisette
Prologue II
Carrie
2014
“W
hy isn’t he answering my texts?” Carrie thought, noticing that her third message in fifteen minutes was still marked as ‘Sent’ and not ‘Read’. She stood in the checkout line at the Foodway, going over the list one more time in her head as she looked at the pile of groceries in her cart. Wine, lots of it; cheese and other snacks, lots of them; and other ingredients to make hors d’oeuvres for a fun night with friends.
She wanted to find out if there was anything else Marcus wanted. He was from El Salvador, and she wanted this night to be special for him. She thought back to their first meeting, the massage that had loosened her up, made her feel so good, and lowered her stress by a mile. She could still feel his fingers tingling on her back, neck, and shoulders—the rough, strong, and powerful hands easing up her thighs and kneading her buttocks.
She had wanted to take him right then and there but went against her nature. It had only been two months since Frank, her second husband, had died in the accident, and it wouldn’t have looked good to anyone to see her canoodling with some strange Latin lover just a few months after her husband died so tragically.
She waited and got to know him better, letting him touch her all over but never to the point of actual lovemaking. And boy, when they finally kissed, a year into their sessions, that had been a doozy.
Thinking of that first kiss, and anticipating many more to come, she tried calling him. She dialed his number, but it picked up immediately. “Hi, this is Marcus, you know what to do,” his voicemail said. It didn’t even ring.
“What the fuck?” she said aloud in the checkout line. An old lady wearing a housecoat from the sixties looked at her with admonishment in her glare.
“Language, young lady,” said the woman.
Carrie gave her a twisted grin. “Lady, I would appreciate it if you minded your own business. I’ll talk any fucking way I want.”
The housecoat lady huffed and went back to paying for three items with a check, taking longer than usual, while Carrie called her husband three more times, getting the same voicemail each time.
“Don’t overreact, Carrie,” her logical brain said. “He’s in the middle of a client session and can’t come to the phone. Remember, he had a session with someone this afternoon?” But that was at noon; it was already one-thirty. He had to have finished already. She tried again, saying, “Come on, you bastard, answer.”
Voicemail.
“Fuck!”
The young cashier looked up at her, halfway through ringing up her groceries. “Anything wrong, ma’am?”
She smiled sweetly at the cashier. “No, just my husband refuses to answer his phone, and here I was thinking our anniversary dinner needed more,” she explained. Why am I telling the girl my business? she thought. “Just ring everything up. If I need to, I can come back, right?”
“Sure,” the clerk said. “It’s like that with my boyfriend. Can’t ever get him to answer. He’ll text back, though, for sure.”
“Only mine isn’t texting back, either,” Carrie said.
Minutes later, the girl had finished, Carrie paid for the groceries, and she rushed to her car. Her mind raced through various scenarios that could explain Marcus’s lack of response, each one more alarming than the last. He’s in the hospital, or he ran off the road and is stranded, maybe he was bitten by a dog and had to go to the hospital, or he had an unexpected session with a client. That last one was probably it. It happened all the time in his line of work. Stop worrying, Carrie. Just get home and you’ll see. He’ll be there.
She loaded the grocery bags into the back of her Toyota Highlander, got in, and drove to her townhouse bungalow on Burgundy Street. As she pulled up, she noticed Marcus’s car, a green Subaru, parked out front. So he is home, she thought. Parked on the road was a car she recognized—a white Kia Scion, boxy and glaring white in the summer sun. Angela.
As she approached the door, Carrie couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling gnawing at her. Angela was a yoga instructor at the local gym and had introduced Carrie to Marcus two years ago. So what was she doing here?
Determined to find out, Carrie decided to bring in the groceries first. Let the cheese melt first, I’m going to find out what’s happening here, she thought to herself. She walked to the door and turned the knob, only to find it locked.
Okay, this wasn’t kosher at all. She tried to peer through the small window next to the door but couldn’t see anything. They had put up curtains a couple of months ago, the room darkening ones, to block out the bright morning sun. Despite her efforts, she couldn’t get a clear view through the thin slit between the curtains.
With a sinking feeling in her gut, Carrie retrieved her key and inserted it into the lock. As she turned it, she heard something that struck her in the solar plexus.
As Carrie stood frozen in shock, the unmistakable sounds of passion echoed from inside.
“Oh, Marcus, harder baby, harder!” Angela’s voice rang out, filled with desire. Carrie’s mind raced—was Marcus giving her a massage that good? But deep down, she knew better. The chilling slap of a hand on skin shattered any doubt.
With anger coursing through her veins, Carrie took a deep breath and turned the doorknob. As the door swung open, she was met with a scene that ripped her heart to shreds.
Marcus, her husband from El Salvador, and Angela, her friend from the gym, were entangled in the Downward Dog pose, both naked. Marcus gripped Angela’s long blond hair, his hand firmly planted on her bare, pink ass as he moved inside her from behind.
As the shock reverberated through the room, Carrie’s voice cut through the air like a knife. “What the actual fuck!” she screamed, her anger boiling over. The lovers sprang apart in panic—Angela darted for the bedroom to retrieve her clothes, while Marcus hastily grabbed a nearby yoga mat, using it to conceal his nakedness. Carrie’s eyes narrowed as she noticed the moisture glistening on the mat—proof of their illicit tryst.
“I can explain, darling,” Marcus stammered, desperation lacing his voice. “It’s not what it looks like!”
“It looks like you’re fucking my friend, you bastard!” Carrie’s voice cracked with fury as she hurled her keys at him. They struck him in the face, causing him to recoil and drop the yoga mat, revealing his shameful arousal.
“Wait, let me explain!” Marcus pleaded, but Carrie was already advancing on him, her finger jabbing accusingly.
An angry Carrie was a formidable sight, her face flushed with rage, her nostrils flaring. In a low growl, she spat, “Get the fuck out of my house and take your whore with you!”
As Angela emerged from the bedroom, hastily dressing, she attempted to interject. “Carrie, let him explain, please.”
“Get the fuck out, both of you!” Carrie’s voice thundered, her eyes blazing with fury. “I never want to see either of you again!”
“I understand you’re—” Angela started, but before she could finish her sentence, Carrie slapped her across the face with an open palm, leaving an angry red mark.
“Get the fuck out of my house!” Carrie pointed angrily to the door. “If I have to tell you again, there’ll be police involved.”
As Marcus hurriedly got dressed, Carrie seethed, her eyes fixed on Angela. “My own friend, my own fucking friend,” she muttered under her breath as the two culprits gathered their belongings and dashed out of the house.
“You’ll be hearing from my lawyer tomorrow!” Carrie shouted after them as they fled to their cars. “And don’t come back!”
She stood on the porch, watching their cars speed away in opposite directions, her anger boiling over. “FUCK!” she screamed, her voice echoing in the empty street. Collapsing onto the steps, she sobbed uncontrollably.
Never again, she vowed. She promised not to allow herself to be betrayed like that ever again. From that moment on, she swore off relationships entirely, deciding only to engage in short-lived affairs. Her heart, once open and trusting, now closed itself off to the possibility of love, consumed by anger, betrayal, and grief.
Jean-Paul Pare' Author 
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