Authors: Justine Elvira
Tags: #coming of age, #outlaw, #action romance, #rags to riches, #friends to lovers, #new adult, #law and crime, #con artist romance, #dance academy, #bad boy love
The Con
Cover by: Robin Harper
Wickedbydesigncovers.com
Smashwords Edition
©2015 Justine Elvira
[email protected]
All rights reserved. This book contains
material under International and Federal Copyright Laws and
Treaties. Any Unauthorized reprint or use of this material is
prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form without written permission of the author, except by a
reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.
This book is a work of fiction and any
resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events or
occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines
are created from the author’s imagination and are used
fictitiously.
Cover image used under license from
shutterstock.com
Acknowledgements
The Con could not have been released without
the wonderful people in my life who help make it all possible. This
was my first book on pre-order and it was so stressful at times,
but I have a great team of people around me who help keep me
sane.
Mayas–
Thank you for being such a
supportive friend. I can always come to you and I know you'll tell
me the truth, exactly how I need to hear it. You're an amazing
event organizer and I would not be able to do all that you do.
Thanks for lightening my workload.
Sam, Mayas, and Barbara
–Thanks for
reading The Con last minute to give me helpful last minute tips.
You're amazing!!!
Robin
–Thanks for another fantastic
cover. You always blow me away with your creativity.
Eileen
–I know I say this all the time
but thank you for dealing with my crazy schedule and always telling
me things are possible. You're an amazing editor and help me more
than you know. Thanks for fixing all my errors :)
To my street team, bloggers, authors and
readers
–Thank you for always helping and supporting me. Your
loyalty is what keeps me going and I'm so grateful for all of
you.
My kids
–Thanks for being absolutely
nuts and keeping me feeling young. You help give me confidence
every day to do what I do. I love you!
Note to my
Readers
I've made a playlist to go alongside the
book. If you are interested in hearing any of the songs mentioned
in this book you can click on the link below and it will bring you
to the music.
I hope you enjoy The Con.
Most women want a man that's already
established. A strong woman will be a part of his struggle, survive
it, succeed together, and build an empire.
~ Unknown
Prologue
I never pictured meeting the only man I
would ever love while crouched over a puddle and crying
hysterically, but fate is a funny thing. It can finally give your
life meaning or tear it apart. I was convinced it gave my life
meaning. Falling in love with Jagger was kismet. We were destined
to be together from the start and here's our story...
Chapter One
Ronnie
I wave goodbye to Ms. Louis as she drives
away, her tires crunching against the white gravel on the side of
the road as she pulls back out onto the main street to head home.
It's just starting to get dark as I turn from where I stand and
walk through the entrance of the trailer park I've lived in all my
life, tapping the wooden sign staked into the grass at the entrance
that reads:
The Evergreen Subdivision
The paint on half of the letters is gone,
but the rise in the wood where each letter is carved makes the sign
legible.
Some people refer to the type of community I
live in as a mobile home or manufactured home subdivision, but
those are the people who have never been to The Evergreen
Subdivision. They've only seen the nicer mobile home communities
scattered across the United States. I live in a worn-down community
that was built in the fifties, and the average household income is
under poverty level. Our trailers are falling apart and the rest of
our town isn't much better.
I definitely live in a trailer park.
Most of the kids in the neighborhood come
from broken homes and we're lucky if we get to live with even one
of our parents. The people we do live with usually have their own
issues so we're all forced to be on our own and raise ourselves.
It's a recipe for trouble, one that I've been lucky to stay away
from so far. I'm not sure how though.
I live with my sister, Pearl. She's
technically my half-sister. My mother had Pearl at seventeen and me
ten years later when she was twenty-seven. While Pearl is
strikingly beautiful with her exotic looks, I'm a ginger–fire red
hair, a few freckles and eyes that can't decide if they're green or
blue. Pearl is average height with curves that make men drool. At
nine years old I'm tall and awkwardly skinny. I look up to my
sister and I used to envy her.
I don't envy her anymore.
Our mother who worked two full-time jobs
just so we had a roof over our heads raised us both. Both men who
knocked her up left her high and dry, meaning she was a single
mother and Pearl and I never got to meet our fathers.
Two years ago our mom got sick–Ovarian
Cancer. We didn't have health insurance so by the time my mom
started showing symptoms and went to the doctor to have the pain
checked out, it was too late. She was already stage four and the
cancer had spread to a few other organs and her lungs. She had a
slim chance of survival.
She died nine months later, leaving my
teenage sister who just graduated from high school my sole
guardian. I was only eight years old with no parental guidance and
a sister that wanted anything other than to be a caregiver. She was
forced to put college on hold and started working as a waitress at
the local diner. After a while Pearl started working the breakfast
and lunch shift because six months ago she started attending night
classes at the local community college. She wants to be a doctor
one day.
Pearl's schedule makes our time together
scarce. I only really see her on Sundays, so I'm forced to take
care of myself. I cook, I clean, I do the shopping, and I’m
responsible for going to bed on time, getting up for school, and
doing my own homework.
Walking down the paved main street in my
trailer park, I stare at the potholes, now filled with water, that
cover the road. It's been raining on and off today, which is
welcome here in the desert, but the water has nowhere to go but sit
stagnant, waiting to be absorbed or evaporate.
As I walk past the large patch of grass near
the entrance that's lined with several wooden picnic benches where
teenagers like to hang out, I'm whistling in joy, remembering how
well I did in ballet class today. I finally learned how to do a
three-rotation
fouetté
rond de jambe en
tournant
. I stop mid-step and start with my supporting leg
in a plié. Going through the motions while wearing my tennis shoes,
I successfully do a
fouetté
rond de jambe
en tournant,
just like I did in class. I'm still in my
tights, leotard and skirt, so the sheer material twirls with my
motion. Landing with perfect form, I squeal with delight because
I'm catching on to ballet so easily. That's when I accidently let
go of my ballet slippers, throwing them across the pavement before
they drop into a puddle of dark muddy water. The same ballet
slippers I love and had been holding so tightly in my hands.
I run over to the puddle in the street
that's caused by a gaping pothole. Kneeling down next to the water
and getting my tights dirty, I pull my ballet slippers out of the
water, but it's no use. They're ruined. The pale pink material is
soaked and covered with splotches of mud. I place them on the
ground as my hands cover my face and I start to cry. This was my
only pair of ballet shoes. Ms. Louis bought me these and I can't
afford a new pair
A few months after my mother died, my second
grade teacher, Ms. Louis, was worried about me. She was aware of my
home life and knew I was forced to grow up a lot earlier than my
peers. During school one day she asked me if I ever wanted to learn
how to dance. My eyes lit up with excitement as I told her I had
always wanted to learn to dance. A few weeks later she kept me
after school and handed me a duffle bag, telling me to go to the
bathroom and change.
I entered the girl's bathroom and walked to
the last stall at the end of the narrow room. Confused, but knowing
Ms. Louis was a trusted adult and I was to listen to her, I zipped
opened the canvas bag and pulled out pink tights, a black leotard
and a sheer pink skirt. There were ballet slippers and tap shoes in
the bag as well.
Excited, I locked the gray stall door and
stripped off my clothing before putting on the tights, leotard and
skirt. I didn't know which pair of dance shoes I was supposed to
wear, so I put my white tennis shoes back on and left the bathroom,
re-entering Ms. Louis's classroom looking like a ballerina.
I would find out later that day that Ms.
Louis was able to get me a scholarship to take free dance lessons
at her friend's dance studio in Phoenix. After coming to an
agreement with my sister, Ms. Louis would drive me an hour into the
city for dance lessons three times a week, before driving back an
hour home. I may be only nine, but I know the type of sacrifice and
dedication that takes. Ms. Louis really cares for her students, for
me, and wants me to succeed in life. She believes being involved in
group activities helps kids like me stay out of trouble.
That's why I'm so upset right now. The tears
are pouring down my cheeks as my breath hitches with each sob. I
run my hand through my hair, making a mess of the tight bun on top
of my head. Loose strands of red hair fall down my face.
How am I supposed to tell Ms. Louis I ruined
my dance shoes? I can't ask her to get me another pair because
she's already done so much. My sister, Pearl, is already spread so
thin working as many hours as she can and going to school. She
can't even spare the small amount of money it will take to get a
new pair.
"Don't be sad, sweetheart," a voice whispers
from beside me as I feel a hand settle against my back. Dropping my
palms from my damp face, I look over and meet a pair of the most
bizarre and beautiful eyes I have ever seen–one eye blue with a
ring of burnt orange around the pupil and the other eye is light
brown with a rim of dark gray around the pupil. I've never seen two
eyes so different on the same face. They're detailed and
fascinating.
The boy's brown hair is long and tucked
behind his ears. My eyes shift down and over his frame. His slim
body is covered in a greasy white t-shirt, dirty jeans, and worn
black boots. He can't be much older than me.
With his free hand he reaches up and tucks a
loose strand of my hair behind my ear. "What's the matter?"
I stare into his eyes as my breathing slowly
settles and I realize I've stopped crying. Bringing my hands to my
face, I wipe the tears from under my eyes before answering. "I
dropped my ballet slippers and now they're ruined."
My eyes move to where I've placed the shoes.
The mud is starting to dry on the soft pink leather.