Baby steps, right??? Sure. Let's go with that.
Anyway, today is the big cover reveal for Consequence, the sequel and finale to the Confidence Game series. If I could make you read just one of my series, it would seriously be THIS ONE. I lovvvvedddd writing Constant. Sure, it nearly killed me. And sure, nothing went as I planned it to go... But it's just one of those stories that got way under my skin and made me fall in love with writing and publishing and all of life all over again. Yes, it's different than anything I've written before. But I literally say that about every new book I write. And yes, it ends on a MAJOR cliffhanger. BUT, the follow-up book is coming soon!!!! February, 27th to be exact!! So basically you have nothing to lose! ;)
And just in case you're not quite convinced, here is the first chapter of Consequence to whet your appetite. Let me know what you think!!!!
Yay for blogging again!<3 nbsp="" p="">
Grab Constant, the first book in the series here --->>> Constant
Pre-order Consequence, the second and final installment here --->>> Consequence
Chapter One
Sayer
Fifteen Years Ago
Doubt niggled in my gut, forcing me to question my
choices. I hated it. I hated the greasy feeling sloshing around in the pit of
my stomach. Halting hesitation stilted my limbs and slowed my footsteps.
The door in front of me seemed to stretch to the dark
sky overhead. The damp, ivy covered walls seemed to close in on me, trapping me
in a prison I wasn’t ready to face yet.
Letting out a slow, measured breath I balled my hands
into fists and reminded myself that this was my only option for survival. I’d
made my bed and now I had to live in it.
For however long my life lasted.
Wrapping my knuckles against the back entrance to a
Russian-run bar in the middle of downtown DC, I swallowed the lump of fear and my
uncertainty. The gritty taste in my mouth remained.
“What?” a gigantic tank of a man asked when the metal
door creaked open.
The opened door let out a gust of warm air that smelled
like booze and sweat. It reminded me of my old man and I had to plant my feet
to restrain myself from involuntarily bolting.
“I want to see the bosses,” I declared boldly.
The ogre’s mouth split into a scary smile, revealing
rows of gold teeth and a fat, gray tongue. My request was amusing enough that
he didn’t bother playing games with me. I obviously wasn’t an FBI informant or
slimy CI. I wasn’t wearing a wire. He knew exactly where I came from—the
gutter.
He clicked his tongue between his teeth and lips. “And
what does a street rat like you want with the pakhan?”
His thick accent made it hard for me to understand
him, but I got the gist of what he asked. “I have information,” I told him and
then quickly added. “Important information.”
His smile disappeared. “Yeah? How about you tell it to
me and I’ll relay the message.”
I shook my head. No fucking way. I give this guy the
goods, I’ll never get another chance to get inside. This had to come from me.
And it had to go straight to the top. “I tell the bosses. Nobody else.”
He spat a string of curses in a foreign language I
assumed was Russian. “I’m not playing games, shithead. And you’re not getting
inside. Give me the fucking information or get lost.” When I hesitated, he
added, “You have three seconds.”
“It’s about the Irish,” I blurted, desperate to have
him hear me out. “And a huge fucking shipment of guns.” I rubbed my tongue on
the roof of the mouth. The curse word felt funny on my tongue. Up until six
months ago, I wouldn’t have used it out of respect for my mom. But since I’d
been living on the streets, I’d learned there were certain kinds of people in
the world who only responded to a specific way of talking. If I wanted to be
taken seriously I needed to get comfortable with their language.
Besides it wasn’t like I was sheltered or some shit.
Thirteen years of living with my dad had taught me how to survive on the
streets—I could survive the Russian mob or the fucking epicenter of hell.
The meathead’s curiosity had been piqued. “And what
does a piece of scum like you know about the fucking Irish?”
I craned my neck to rub my cheek against my bony
shoulder. “I know that I’ve been working with them for two months. I know that
they’re expecting a container next month. I know that the guns that were
supposed to be on it were delayed because their customs officer was arrested
and so they were put on a separate, smaller ship, making them arrive two weeks
ahead of time. I know that if you know the right place they’re coming in at you
could beat the Irish and grab them for yourselves.”
His jaw ticked, revealing confusion and anger. “And
how the fuck do you know that?”
“Because I know it. Now are you going to let me in to
talk to the bosses? Or am I going to have to take this information to the
Italians?”
“Fucking Italians.” He pursed his lips and spit. I
flexed my entire body and held perfectly still. I couldn’t let this guy see me
flinch. He was just the gatekeeper, but if I cringed in front of him he
wouldn’t take me seriously and I’d lose my one shot at getting inside.
I was tough and I’d prove it here and now.
Caroline’s voice drifted through my head, bolstering
my courage, boosting my adrenaline. “Make
them realize you’re valuable.” She’d
offered the advice like a last-minute question. She’d wanted to save me from
the streets. She’d wanted to rescue me from the assholes that had hired me. But
she’d done something better instead.
She’d given me something to live for—seeing her again.
“How do you know any of that?” the bouncer demanded.
“How do I know you’re not a little spy sent by someone else? The Irish could
have sent you. The Italians could have sent you. The goddamn cops could be
messing with us.”
“How about you let the bosses decide that? Pretty sure
those questions are above your pay grade.”
I expected him to punch me in the face, but he threw
his head back and laughed instead. “How old are you, kid?”
I had no reason to lie. Although I probably should
have anyway. “Thirteen.”
“Fucking balls for a kid of thirteen.”
I shrugged. “Are you going to let me in or what?”
“Fuck it,” he grumbled, but pushed the door open so I
could walk inside.
Repressing the relieved smile playing at the corners
of my mouth, I inhaled the sticky sweet stench of the bar and tried not to gag.
God, I had hated places like this. I hated the loud mouth men yelling at each
other from across the room. I hated the pounding music that never ended. I
hated the women that worked here, that dressed in as little as possible and let
the drunk ass men put their hands all over them.
This bar was too close to home. And it took everything
in me not to bolt. I wanted to run away from this place like I wanted to run
from my past. I wanted to head back to the mission house that had given me a
hot chocolate and offered a warm bed to sleep in.
Bile rose up in my throat and I banished the manipulative
thoughts before they could take root. That idyllic dream would lead one place—to
child services. And they would just send me back to foster care.
There was only one thing on this godforsaken planet
worse than my old man and that was foster care.
Fuck that.
I’d take the Russians before I’d ever let them send me
back.
Hell, I’d even stay with the Irish before I let that
happen.
I followed the goon through the bar and toward a
darkened staircase. Everyone we passed sent curious looks my way, but my new
friend didn’t offer any explanations. I appreciated his discretion, even if he
was trying to keep the number of witnesses to a minimum.
At the top of the stairs, we took the single hallway
to the farthest closed door. I ignored the sounds coming from the other rooms
as we walked by and the occasional screams of both pleasure and pain.
Eyes wide open,
I reminded myself. I was stepping into this world fully aware of what I was
getting into. I was choosing a life of crime, of immorality… of sin. This was
my life, and for the first time ever, I was deciding how I wanted to live it.
My guide pounded his meaty fist against the door until
someone on the other side called out a terse, “Come in.”
The door opened and the goon shoved me through it.
“This kid says he can get us the next shipment of Irish guns. Says he wants to
trade something for it.”
I hadn’t said that. A wave of gratitude washed through
me for this nameless stranger. I knew enough about the world that I could
recognize this for what it was—a future favor I would be expected to make
right. I was grateful enough to be okay with owing this guy one.
The cool, calculated gazes of three well-dressed men
turned to me. The bosses. I had never seen them in person before, but it was
obvious who they were. The entire room was practically bowed in their presence.
I’d overheard the Irish talk about them enough to know
there were three of them and they were brothers. Dymetrus was the muscle in the
family. He controlled the enforcers and handled the punishments. Aleksander—the
brains. He made the money decisions and ran the businesses. And Roman—the boss
of bosses. He was the face of the family, the oldest brother and the end all be
all of the Russian mafia in this city.
It was Roman I would have to convince.
It was Roman I would have to survive.
And there he sat, directly across the room from me, at
the head of the table, his brothers to both sides of him, his closest men in
chairs bordering the large room. He was dark-haired and slick-looking, like oil
personified. He was groomed to perfection and his tailored suit was worth more
than my life.
I hated him immediately.
He had everything I wanted and didn’t have. Money,
power, security, a place to sleep. Something settled inside me, dropping to my
gut like the first stone of a new building, the one the rest of the foundation
would be built on. Or the seed of a mighty oak that took root and began the
arduous task of growing, developing, of becoming something bigger, better and
more permanent than what it was.
I decided right then and there that I wanted everything
Roman had. Not just the money and the clothes and the material possessions—I
wanted the job too. I wanted the power. I wanted his empire.
And today was the first step to getting it.
“Speak, child,” he ordered, his voice heavy with
Russian influence. “Tell us your tale.”
His black eyes glinted in the low light, sparking with
curiosity and mystery. I held his gaze and ignored the buzzing of nerves
threatening to make me puke. “I did a job for you two months ago. It was an
electronics store. I climbed up a wall and turned off security cameras, then
hid in a space between two walls and jumped the driver of a delivery truck when
he stepped out of the cab.”
Roman’s head tilted to the side. “I thought you were
going to tell me about where I can find Irish guns.”
“I want a job,” I told him evenly. “If I tell you
about the guns, I want to work for you.”
“It sounds as though you’re already working for me,”
Roman countered. “And the Irish. And who knows who else.”
I shook my head, realizing I needed to slow down. “I
don’t want to be a six. I want to be one of you.” I jerked my chin toward the
bouncer. “I want to be bratva.”
Roman’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a child.”
“I’m about to help you take out the Irish,” I reminded
him.
“What did the Irish do to make you hate them so much?”
his brother asked. By his trimmed beard and glasses, I pegged him as Aleksander,
but I couldn’t be sure. “Why are you here tattling on them as though we are
your mother and they have picked on you at school?”
I shook my head again. They weren’t getting it. “I
never wanted to be Irish,” I explained. “Since the job two months ago, I’ve
only wanted to be Russian.”
“Then you should have stayed working for us,” Roman
sighed. “Now we can’t trust you. Now we assume you are an Irish spy and we
should send you back to them with your tail between your legs.”
“Or in a body bag,” Dymetrus murmured.
Heat rushed to my brain and I felt my face turn red.
“I’m not a spy. I went to the Irish in order to find you something to take them
out. That’s all. I never wanted to work for them.”
The three brothers stared at me. “Did someone tell you
to do that?” Roman asked. He turned to his other brother. “Who was in charge of
that job? Who would give advice of that nature to this… child?”
Dymetrus snorted. “Leon Valero ran point as I
remember. We needed his daughter on the inside. He didn’t do a half bad job of
it, but Leon’s not kind enough to recruit a kid.”
Daughter. I wondered if they meant Caroline. I filed
that information away. “It wasn’t Leon,” I interrupted and tensed for their
response. “It’s not important who told me what to do. Besides they didn’t say
specifically to get work from the Irish, just that I needed to do something to
prove my worth in order to stay. I want to stay, so I did something to prove my
worth. That’s all. I’m not an Irish
spy. They probably won’t even notice I’m gone. I was just a six for them. A six
that happened to be in the right place at the right time.”
“What is your name?” Roman asked when I expected him
to demand more information.
Nerves pinged through me again, my stomach tightening
into a twisted ball. “Sayer.” I cleared my throat. “Sayer Wesley.”
Roman sat back in his chair. “How do I know that
name?” He turned to his brother again. “Why is that name familiar.”
“His father was a cop,” Aleksander offered. “He’s dead
now.”
Recognition flashed in Roman’s eyes. “Suicide.”
I scanned the room for the closest trash can,
convinced I was going to puke. Thankfully, I hadn’t eaten anything today so
there was nothing in my stomach. I managed to nod.
Roman shared a look with his brothers before turning
his black eyes back to me. “It’s time you told us everything, Sayer Wesley.
Starting with how a dead cop’s kid ends up trying to defect from the family his
own dear dad used to work for.”
“My dad might’ve been Irish, but I hated him. I want
nothing to do with his family. I want nothing to do with the Irish.” I spit the
words out as promises. Anger bubbled beneath my skin, fury ready to be
unleashed in my fisted hands.
“You say that here,” Roman countered calmly. “But what
about to them? Maybe you say the same things about the Russians to them. Surely
they expect you to carry on his legacy. Surely they expect another dirty cop?
Or at the very least a loyal soldier.”
I ground my teeth together. “Then this will set them
right.”
Something in my tone or in my eyes must have finally
convinced them I was telling the truth. Roman sat back in his chair and folded
his arms over his chest. “And how can we trust someone one that hates his
father so much? Family means something to us.”
“Family means something to me too. I just want to be
able to choose who my family is. I want to decide who I call brother and who I
swear my life to. The Irish don’t get that honor. My fucking dad didn’t get
that honor.”
“And you think the guns are enough?” Roman asked still
calm and unruffled. “You think one ship full of guns is enough to turn your
Irish blood Russian?”
I struggled to swallow past the baseball-sized lump in
my throat. “Yes.”
“You’re wrong,” Roman said with a small, amused smile.
“But it’s a start.”
His words were a fatal blow, a crushing disappointment
that felt like total destruction. I hadn’t realized how much I had hoped that
this would be easy or how desperately I needed them to give me what I wanted. I
had nowhere else to go. I had no backup plan. I had no other options. “A-a
start?”
“Who told you that you needed to prove yourself to
become bratva?” Roman demanded in a
tone I knew better than to argue with.
“A girl,” I confessed quickly.
The brothers shared another look. “Did this girl have
a name?” Aleksander asked.
I licked dry lips and contemplated how to answer.
“There were two girls there. It was the one with short hair.” I felt proud of
myself for not giving away her name. If the Russians were like the Irish, they
had a dozen or so nameless street kids working for them. The bosses wouldn’t
know who they were. And I wouldn’t be expected to remember one of them after
meeting them only once.
Only I did remember her. I remembered everything about
her.
The brothers lapsed into Russian, their expressions
growing stern and serious. They seemed to be arguing about something, gesturing
toward me and the window behind them. And then they said her name. Caroline
Valero. And I knew I’d turned her in.
Shit.
I swallowed and tried to pick up the repeated phrases
or words so I could go to the library tomorrow and look them up, but it was
impossible to understand them. I didn’t know any Russian and they were speaking
way too fast for me to memorize anything substantial.
Roman had the last say and the other brothers closed
their mouths, even though they didn’t look happy about it. He turned his gaze
back to me once more and looked more sinister than ever. I couldn’t pinpoint it
for a second, but I realized he reminded me of a cartoon cat with a mouse
dangling from his fingertips. He had something he wanted.
And I was just now realizing that something was me.
“I want you to tell me about the guns, Sayer Wesley.
If your information proves to be accurate and if my men are able to procure the
weapons, I will in fact allow you to become bratva.
Not a six, like you’ve suggested, but a brother. We will blood you so that you
will no longer be Irish, but Russian. We will tattoo you so that everyone in
this city knows who you belong to, so your ties with the Irish mob will forever
be severed. And we will treat you as one of us. We will give you a place to
live and you will work for us for the rest of your life. Is that what you
want?”
The promise was too much to resist. My voice shook
with dangerous hope as I answered, “That is what I want.”
“Then there will be one more task for you to complete.
If you can give us the Irish and we make you bratva, then you must do one more thing.”
Reality sliced through me and I realized I had walked
into the spider’s web. Willingly. It was one thing to become Russian. It was
another thing entirely to owe them a favor.
“What thing?”
Roman hesitated long enough that I thought he might
not tell me, that he might make me wait until after I was bratva to demand his pound of flesh. At last he said, “You must
give us Caroline Valero.”
My heart kicked at my chest and I pushed up onto the
balls of my feet, readying to run. “What do you mean?”
“I want her,” Roman explained. Before I could fly
across the table and murder him, he added. “In the brotherhood. She has a…
special set of skills I only see improving. I want to own her talent. I want her
to be bratva.”
“She’s already a six—”
“She works begrudgingly to help her father,” Roman
explained. “She has no intentions of getting marked. My niece tells me she has
plans to go to college and leave the life completely.” His nose wrinkled in
distaste. “Not only do I refuse to lose her talent, she has a certain influence
over my niece that I will not abide. She must be bratva. Do you understand?”
From the second I saw Caroline, I knew she was
different. This information didn’t surprise me at all. She didn’t look Russian.
And she didn’t look like she belonged in that back alley. She was the most
beautiful thing I had ever seen and if she hadn’t talked to me, I wouldn’t have
believed she was real. Of course she wanted to go to college. She didn’t belong
with these lowlifes. She didn’t belong to this world. “You want me to convince
her to not go to college?”
Roman stretched his neck impatiently. “I want you to
give her a reason to stay. A reason she cannot leave.”
I shook my head. “I don’t follow.”
Roman said what sounded like a curse word in Russian
and leaned forward, stretching his folded hands in front of him on the sleek
table. “I want you to give me a reason to make her bratva. I want you to prove you belong here by securing her future
with me.”
My heart pounded and adrenaline rushed through me as I
realized what I was being asked. There were two ways to enter a life like this
one. The first was to walk willingly into it. Like I was trying to do. The
second was to do something that trapped you inside—usually a sin of some kind,
a bargain with the devil that could not be broken. They were asking me to give
them an opportunity to trap Caroline in the bratva.
“How much time do I have?” I asked, my tongue heavy
and stiff in my mouth.
“You have until she tries to leave,” Roman answered,
his lips twisting with a small smile. “She will work for us as long as she
lives here and her father is working for our organization. I need her choice to
be taken away from her. I need her loyalty. You have until she graduates high
school. But sooner would be preferable.”
The tumultuous feelings inside of me started to become
clearer. I realized I wasn’t afraid nor was I upset on her behalf. I was
excited. Thrilled. Happy.
It turned out that Roman and I wanted the same thing—Caroline
Valero. His task was in complete alignment with what I had set out to do.
“Your price is Caroline Valero?” I asked when I
started to doubt what I’d heard. Could I want this so badly I had just imagined
it?
“Make her mine,” Roman ordered. “And you will always
belong to this brotherhood.”
“Okay,” I told him knowing that it was a lie. Knowing
that Caroline would never be his. But I would do what he asked to make her
mine. I would figure out how to make her bratva
not so she wouldn’t leave the Russians, but so she wouldn’t leave me.
I spent the rest of the night explaining the shipment
of guns I knew was on the way. I gave all the details of how many men would be
there to pick it up and exactly where the guns would go. I showed them the fax
for the port details and what time they could expect the ship to dock. After
they had everything they needed, they called the bookkeeper over and arranged a
place for me to stay. And then sent me home with him.
He gave me a place to stay, a shower, a hot meal and a
bed to sleep in. I fell asleep knowing my future was secure, knowing my place
in the brotherhood was as good as finalized, knowing I would get Roman
everything he asked, because it was everything I wanted.
I would do anything to make Caroline Valero mine. Even
if that meant making her bratva with
me.
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