TRAGIC: Rook and Ronin, #1
Description
TRAGIC
Rook and Ronin, Book One
By J. A. Huss
Find me at
Edited by
RJ Locksley
Cover design by J. A. Huss
Copyright © 2013 by J. A. Huss
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1-936413-22-5
Other books by J.A. Huss
Clutch (I Am Just Junco, Book One)
Fledge (I Am Just Junco, Book Two)
Flight (I Am Just Junco, Book Three)
Range (I Am Just Junco, Book Four)
The Magpie Bridge (A Tier Novella, Book 4.5)
TRAGIC: Rook and Ronin, #1 (May 2013)
Losing Francesca (July 2013)
MANIC: Rook and Ronin, #2 (August 2013)
Return (I Am Just Junco, Book Five) (December 2013)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
BOOK DESCRIPTION
Rook Walsh is Tragic.
Because life so far—just sucks. Some girls get parents. Rook got the foster care system. Some girls get Prince Charming. Rook got an abusive frog. Some girls get lucky…
Rook got a second chance.
And she took it. Because when fate throws you a bone—you grab it with both hands and run.
Antoine Chaput knows the minute he spies Rook in his photography studio that she's got The Look. The dark and desperate look he must have to land the exclusive TRAGIC media contract.
Rook is paired up with top model Ronin, and he's everything her abusive ex-boyfriend wasn't. Patient, gentle, happy, attentive, and sexy as hell! He knows exactly what to do to make Rook blush for Antoine's camera.
Rook's luck changes in an instant and suddenly she's the darling of the modeling world. It's a dream job to go with a dream guy and all she has to do is look pretty and follow directions. But there's always a price to pay—and Rook is about to get the bill.
Chapter One - ROOK
Life. Sucks.
I step off the curb, dodge a few cars, and head straight for the Starbucks. I can't even remember the last time I had Starbucks, but today, with only ten dollars to my name, I'm getting a ten-freaking-dollar coffee. Quality Cleaning can kiss my ass—I might be poor and I might not have a whole lot going for me right now, but I've never been a thief and I've never been a liar. If they want to try and charge me for stealing a ring I never took, they'll get a fight.
I know it was that stupid Delores who stole that ring. I know it. She blamed it on me and now I'm fired, still living out of a homeless shelter, and on the completely wrong side of town.
I take a deep breath and smell the coffee.
Coffee.
I haven't had a decent coffee in like… well, maybe ever. Even in my other life I wasn't the kind of girl who hung out on the trendy side of town. And this place is definitely trendy, lots of bars—and not the kind that have strippers or that look like they only serve old men at eight in the morning. The kind that serve young people who are out looking to get laid on Friday nights. And men who like sports. The baseball stadium is very close, so there are lots of sports bars.
All the people who are going in and out of this Starbucks look like they work around here, like they belong. I look down at my clothes and wonder if I fit in. My jeans are not designer, shit, they're not even Levis. And my hoodie is from the thrift store near the shelter.
Who gives a crap?
I let a young hipster couple exit and then push my way into the crowded shop. The line is long, but I've got time, so I stand there with more patience than pretty much everyone else in that place, and wait my turn. The barista is patient as I ask questions and I order the biggest latte size they have, ask for real cream and hazelnut syrup, and top it off with whip cream instead of foam.
It takes another ten minutes for them to make my frothy drink and then finally, I take a look around for a place to sit. I have to stand for a few minutes but eventually a man leaves a table and I swoop in, sit with my back to the wall, facing the door, and try to pretend I'm just another girl on a break, getting her usual drink before going back to her trendy job.
That I have a job, period. That I'm not out on the streets, that I'm not a victim, that I'm not scared shitless that Jon will somehow find me.
I take a deep breath and let it out like the counselors at the shelter taught me. This fear of Jon is not rational. I realize this. I mean, I've been gone two months now and no one has even come looking. I gave them a fake name at the shelter, but the maid service needed a real name, and I've worked there for six weeks and no one came looking.
And that sorta bugs me because I pretty much disappeared off the face of the Earth and no one even noticed.
It makes me feel small and inconsequential.
I sip my drink as I look around, the hot liquid soothing me and making my day special. I wonder what Charles is doing these days? He's been gone from the shelter for a few weeks now. Had to go back to jail for a week to serve out some sentence for… something. I never asked. Never wanted to know to be honest. And then he just never came back.
It's that way with pretty much everyone at the shelter. They come and they go. Everything is transient. Just like Starbucks. The people come in, get what they need to get through their day, and then they leave.
A four-seater table opens up next to me and a swarm of tall, thin girls sneak in and claim it, sighing in relief that they found a place to sit and chat, tossing their well-conditioned hair, and clasping their well-manicured hands around tall expensive cardboard cups of coffee.
My hair is a dull dark brown. If I take really good care of it, it's shiny and near-black. But it's barely getting minimal care right now, let alone good.
And I just spent my last ten dollars on a coffee so this hair has no hope. I laugh a little under my breath. As if hair was my biggest problem.
You have no money for
food
, Rook.
Man, I am so stupid.
The beautiful girls, I learn though eavesdropping, are all models. It figures, right? The select few in the world get everything, while the rest of us poor jerks get to scrub toilets for a living just to make enough to buy food and sleep in a homeless shelter at night.
One girl, a red-head with skin as fair and smooth as ivory, complains loudly about the last photographer who refused to let her even do a test shoot, whatever that means. Another girl passes around a business card, all the others talking about how he's an asshole and they've all been turned away. The red-head who was complaining, thinking she is someone special, realizes to my satisfaction that she's as plain and unwanted as the rest.
The blonde with glossy pink lips grabs the card from the other girl's hand and flicks it in the air. I watch as it sails across the table and plunks me in the head. All the girls start laughing in a fit, grab their coffees, and make a quick escape.
I pick up the card and study it. It's thick and white and says:
Antoine Chaput—Photographer of Artful Beings
That's all. No number, no contact information at all. I flip it over and there's some very messy handwriting in blue ink. An address and the words—
Test shoot, 1 PM, May 17.
Under the address are the words that make my mouth drop open.
$100 per hour if booked
. The
if booked
is underlined, like whoever wrote it was trying to make a point.
I fish out my phone to check the time. Just short of twelve thirty.
Even though the data plan I purchased months ago for emergencies is almost maxed out, I plug the address into the GPS app on my phone and bite my lip as it pulls up the map. It's only a few blocks over and suddenly my sucky day is getting a little brighter. I shrug on my pack and rush out the door, half running with excitement, half with desperation, towards a job I have no chance of ever getting, especially dressed like this.
But for the first time in a very long time, I feel something besides anger and hopelessness and shame.
I feel a spark and I don't get many of those, so no matter what happens, I'm gonna see where it takes me.
It's windy for mid-May and by the time I make the old warehouse building containing the photographer's studio my hair is a freaking mess. I try to smooth it down a little after the heavy lobby door swishes closed behind me, but it's pretty useless.
I climb the stairs to the fourth floor and arrive at Antoine Chaput's translucent glass door very winded and in complete disarray. There are two names on the door.
Antoine Chaput, Photographer
, of course. But underneath it says
Elise Flynn, Stylist
.
I can hear yelling inside.
And crying.
And then things are breaking and I sink to the floor in fear as Jon's fists come into my mind. But it's like a bad car accident on the freeway—something terrible is happening. I refuse to move my feet, I refuse to plug my ears, and despite the fact that I'm scared shitless by whatever is happening behind that door, I can't turn away from my stolen appointment with Antoine Chaput.
A half-naked young girl bursts through the door, wearing only a pair of pretty panties and matching bra, pulling on her expensive designer jeans as she hops down the hallway, and then before she even buttons them up, she tugs a sweatshirt over her head and spies me on the floor in the corner.
"I'd hide from him too! He's such an asshole! I hate you, Antoine!" she screams. "And I will never," she picks up some anger here, "
never
let you photograph me again, even if you beg me!" She slips on some cute ballet flats, hopping once again to maintain balance, and is about to leave when she has a thought. I can see her thinking because her eyes roll up a little and her head tilts—like she's a cartoon character with a comment bubble coming out of her mouth. "And I'm keeping the lingerie. Asshole!"
She already said he was an asshole, but I suppose when you're that angry a varied vocabulary isn't the first thing on your mind. The irate girl turns back to me then. "You better be ready. He's in a fit today and I'll never work for him again!"