Heated by J. Kenner
Acknowledgments
I want to say a huge shout-out to everyone I’ve met across the social media community, some only in 140 character increments on Twitter, others flashing across my Facebook pages and profile. (I mean, it’s an amazing world when you actually meet and interact with folks who will later become friends, beta readers, and more only through 140 character flybys.)
Every one of you makes me laugh and smile, and the support and enthusiasm I’ve received is both thrilling and humbling. So here’s to all of you: #YouGuysAreTheBest
I also owe special shout-outs to Neil Orme, whom I found on Google when I needed a research fact (sorry—spoilers abound!) and he answered my out-of-the-blue email in less than an hour; to Dana for the reads, the enthusiasm, and the Chicago advice; and to Elle and Christie for the hashtag, emoticon, and teaser-image luv. #YouKnowYouRock
Most of all I have to thank the fabulous folks at Bantam, who really do go above and beyond. #MyPublisherIsAwesomeSauce
Chapter One
Right and wrong.
Good and evil.
Black and white.
These are the parameters of the world in which we live, and anyone who tries to tell you otherwise—who argues that nothing is absolute, and that there are always shades of gray—is either a fool or trying to con you.
At least that is what I used to believe.
But that was before I met him. Before I looked into his eyes. Before I gave him my trust.
Maybe I’m a fool. Maybe I’ve lost my balance and my edge.
I don’t know.
All I know is that from the moment I met him, everything changed. One look, and I feared that I was in trouble.
One touch, and I knew that I should run.
One kiss, and I was lost.
Now the only question is, will I find my way back to who I was? And more important, do I want to?
Nothing is ever as easy as it should be.
My dad taught me that. He served as a special agent with the FBI for twenty years before leaving that post to become the chief of police in Galveston, Texas, an island community with enough crime to keep his life interesting, and enough sunshine and warm weather to keep him happy.
During the years I was growing up, I’d watch as he spent hours, days, weeks, even months putting together a kick-ass case against some of the vilest criminals that ever walked this earth. Thousands of man hours. Hundreds of pieces of evidence. All those little ducks lined up just the way they should be—and it didn’t make one bit of difference. The defense would spout some technicality, the judge would cave, and poof, all that work went down the drain.
Like I said, nothing is ever easy. That’s the first truism upon which I base my life.
The second is a corollary: No one is what they seem.
My stepfather taught me that. He was a fast-rising major league baseball player that the press took a liking to. They called him the golden boy, predicted he’d spearhead his team to the World Series, and did everything but genuflect when he entered a room. What they didn’t report was the way he beat my mother. The way he forced me to watch, threatening that my turn was coming. His hands, his fists, a broken beer bottle. Whatever was handy. I’d flinch with every blow, and when her bones snapped, I’d feel it too, and my scream would blend with hers in some horrific, discordant melody.