My secret has been kept for ten years . . . my time is up . . .

 I am so dang proud of this book! I cried, yelled, and laughed while writing it. Warning, it does deal with abuse which is very personal to me. I hope I showed how we can rise up from a start that's less than idyllic. I know I did. I changed my life. Here's the Prologue and Chapter One for you to try out :) I can't wait for the first conference this year!! I miss your faces!

With love, Melody :) 

 

 

 

Prologue

 

 

 

      I feel nothing as I look at the man on the floor at my feet. Have you ever truly heard silence before? I know this is a weird thing to ask, but really, have you ever actually heard silence? It’s such an odd sound . . . and yes, it’s a sound. If it weren’t, horror movies wouldn’t do as well as they do. We’re so used to constant noise surrounding us that it’s both eerie and unmistakable when there’s an absence of sound.

      The knife is clutched in my hand, and I look at it with an odd sort of detachment as blood slowly trickles down the shining silver blade. My gaze follows a trail of blood on the smooth silver surface. It doesn't drop in a straight line but makes a zigzag pattern on the two-inch wide blade until it reaches the sharp tip. The beads of blood pool for an endless second before falling from the edge in a single drop.

      I watch in slow motion as the droplet of blood descends.

      Splash. It hits the pool of blood already on the floor. A small ripple occurs, then smooths out before another drop splatters on top of the first. The sound is oddly soothing.

      A moan interrupts my peace. I turn and my gaze travels up the legs, past the torso, and to the face of the man I call . . . father. His dark brown eyes blink at me as his mouth gapes open. He tries to speak, but he can’t . . . his vocal cords have been severed. He sort of looks like a fish out of water, his mouth opening and closing . . . fear and realization present in his eyes.

      Sound returns as I hear sirens in the distance. Should I run? Why? I don't want to run. I don’t want to hide anymore. I don’t want to live this life. I've lived in this hell for fourteen years . . . well, at least I think I’ve lived for fourteen years. I only remember the past nine. The first time my father hurt me I was five years old, and every day since then . . . I remember the branding on my shoulder . . . I remember it all.

      “You can’t hurt me anymore,” I tell him.

      He opens his mouth again. The blood on the floor oozes toward my white sneakers, already stained crimson. I step back. I don’t want to stand in his blood, not out of morals . . . never out of morals. He’s made me bleed before; it’s fitting for it to be his blood on me now. This time I’ve made him bleed . . . this time it’s his blood on my hands instead of my blood on his. I wasn’t cruel like he’s been . . . I simply protected myself from him . . . I finally said enough is enough.

      The sirens draw closer.

      Tires screech to a halt, then I hear the sound of feet moving outside the massive front doors of my home. I don’t move. There’s a fist pounding against the door as red and blue lights stream through the enormous front windows of the vast mansion in the McLean neighborhood in Washington, D.C.

      “Police! We’re coming in!” a voice shouts. I still don’t move.

      There’s an ear-piercing sound as something smashes against the thick, ten-foot-tall doors. They are hit again . . . and one of them flies open, slamming against the window beside it, glass shattering. I stare at the chaos as men surge into the substantial front foyer.

      I’m still holding the bloody knife. I don’t know if my father is still alive and attempting to make sounds. I'm focused on the armed men rushing toward me. You’d think I'd be afraid, but I'm not. I’m so used to pain that nothing scares me anymore. I can’t remember the last time I cried . . . I believe I’m broken . . . that I’ve been broken for a very long time.

      “Drop the weapon,” a man shouts.

      I don’t move. I don’t drop the knife, but I don’t hold it up in defense. I stand and wait to see what will happen next. It’s like I'm watching this happen instead of being present in the moment. Will they shoot me? Would that make this better? I can’t be saved. I’ve asked before, and no one will save me. This is the only way to be free.

      “Drop the weapon,” a man shouts again.

      I don’t even realize I do as he demands, but then I look down in surprise as the bloody knife clatters against the blood-soaked marble floor.

      Interesting.

      I’m so used to being told what to do that I can’t stop myself from obeying. If I live, will this always be who I am? Somehow, that thought repulses me more than anything else that’s happened.

      Before I have time to blink, arms grip me. I know the feeling of being grabbed quite well. My arms are thrust behind my back and the familiar steel of handcuffs latch around my small wrists and tighten. I feel no pain as they cut into my flesh. I know how to ignore the pain and take myself to another place in my mind as I’m abused.

      I look at my father one last time as two men grip me, one on either side. I smile when I realize my father is still looking at me . . . but his gaze is void. There's no longer life in those cruel brown irises of his.

      He’s dead.

      My father is dead.

      No matter what happens from this point forward, I’m free . . . at least from one of the many monsters who have abused me. You never know which monster will be just around the corner, though. They are everywhere, and they come in all shapes and sizes. They aren’t who you might think they are. And you wouldn’t believe me if I told you my story . . . but I’ll tell it anyway . . . even if it kills me.

      “She killed him,” a woman gasps as she rushes out to us.

      “Ma’am, are you the one who called?" one of the officers asks as he looks at the visibly shaken woman.

      “Yes,” she cries as she stops a few feet from my father. She looks down in horror. She’s quite a good actress.

      “Name?” the officer asks.

      “I'm Isabella Moore. The man on the floor is my husband.” She then looks at me, hatred in her eyes. “That monster was our daughter. She’s no longer anything to me.” She never was my mother — it just took me a long time to realize that.

      The room goes silent.

      “Take her away. I don’t ever want to see her again,” Isabella snarls.

      The officers begin pulling me from the house while another officer stays behind talking to Isabella. I don’t know what will happen next . . . and I don’t care. I won’t ever have to be in this house again. Nothing else matters.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter One

 

Fourteen Years Later

 

 

      Step inside,

      Walk this way,

      You and me, babe,

      Hey, Hey.

      Smokey red lights turn on, a beam shining directly on Samantha and me as we stand still, my back to her chest, her arms wrapped around me, my head down. I’ve done this routine a thousand times, and there’s no fear as I get ready to perform . . . and that’s precisely what it is . . . a performance. This isn’t who I am, but a character I’m playing to get what I want.

      No, what I want is too simple for words. I’m getting my soul back . . . and the only way to do this is by selling a few pieces of it first. I won’t ever be whole again, but I’m okay with that because I’ve never been a complete person. I shattered long ago . . . and no glue in the world is strong enough to put me back together again. Doing what I’m doing will at least start the process. It not only gives me power, it gives me the funds I need to be free.

      Pour Some Sugar on Me plays in the background as my dancing partner and I begin our choreography. Her hands slide over my stomach, lightly brush across my covered breasts, and caress my cheeks. She leans over my shoulder, her face close to mine, bringing her lips within kissing distance as I open my mouth. Before our lips touch, I turn and do a pirouette, extending my long shapely legs.

      I face her as she wears a men's white shirt half unbuttoned, and a blue tie with a bowler hat on her head, keeping her blonde tresses bundled beneath. I'm wearing a sleek two-piece dress that's easy to remove. Both of us have on four-inch heels and stockings with garters.

      We’re on stage . . . and we have a packed house . . . as usual in the exclusive club only attended by the elite in society. We take stripping to a whole new level . . . and I can’t say I don’t enjoy it. It may not be something I’ll do forever, but it’s given me the gift of what I want in life . . . and I’m very good at turning on the men I think of as the monsters they are. I’ve gained power from doing this, and once you know my story, you’ll understand why I need this in my life.

      I glide to Samantha and place my hand on her chest, sexily pushing her backward. I walk forward while she glides away until her knees hit the edge of a chair. She slides down, and I turn, gripping the sides of the chair and swinging my hips over her lap. I lean back, bringing my leg forward as she lifts a hand and glides it down my body. I turn my head, and this time her lips brush mine in a flash . . . before I stand.

      I circle the stage as she watches . . . the audience leaning in so they don’t miss a moment. I grip the pole and haul myself up before dropping backward and twirling. I hear a moan from the crowd. I upright myself, leap down from the pole, then slide my hands into the bottom of my top, slowly pulling it over my head, leaving only scraps of a lace bra covering my breasts.

      I walk back to Samantha and reach out, gripping her tie and pulling her from the chair. She grabs ahold of me, and we circle the stage together in a dance before I push back again, then turn and bend in front of her. She runs her hands down my backside before pulling me against her and circling her hips.

      I moan as I look out at the crowd. I don’t normally notice the people watching us. I pretend to notice them, but I rarely do . . . however, not this time. For some reason my gaze is drawn to a man sitting in the middle of the room, a glass gripped tightly in his fingers, his eyes on me alone.

      We stare at one another for an endless moment, a shiver rushing through me. I miss my step as the connection between us nearly takes my breath away. I shake it off as I rip my gaze from him.

      He doesn't matter . . . none of the men gazing at us matter beyond the green notes in their hands they willingly throw at us. I'll give them all a show, but they’re the ones truly stripping. We’re stripping away their money, their pride, their relationships . . . their identities. We don’t beg them to come to us, they willingly rush through the doors to give all of themselves until they are left bare.

      They are a tool we'll use until we break them . . . and then we’ll move on to the next . . . and the next . . . and the next.

      Samantha barely blinks as I miss another step. She knows things happen, and she knows how to recover. The audience won't miss a beat as they're too busy staring at the skin we’re displaying. We go right back into our routine as she gazes at me before pulling off her tie, slipping it between her legs, and swinging her hips back and forth. I move to her and rip her shirt open, pushing it off her shoulders. She grips my face and leans in close . . . before both of us turn away and I wrap my arms around her from behind as we swirl our hips together.

      You gotta squeeze a little, squeeze a little,

      Tease a little more.

      Easy operator come a-knockin’ on my door.

      Samantha reaches for the clasp of my bra and slings it off before covering my breasts with her manicured fingers. I lean my head back and sigh as we move toward the pole. She lets go of me before slinging her own bra off, leaving us nearly naked, only a thin pair of thongs and garters covering us.

      We grip the pole and wind around it, moving in perfect sync. We slide down, then press our hips together on the floor as we lean back and arch our backs.

      Take a bottle, shake it up.

      Break the bubble, break it up.

      Pour some sugar on me . . .

      A mist opens above us and fine water droplets drip down, wetting our skin. Samantha leans up, slides over, and pulls me into her arms as our slick skin molds together. The crowd cheers as the song continues and we move on the stage floor.

      We curl up in each other's arms and lean in for a kiss . . . and the lights go out. The crowd groans as we rise, quickly sneaking away to the back room without anyone seeing our exit.

      “What in the heck happened out there?” Samantha asks as she grabs a robe and covers herself while I do the same.

      “I don't know. I met this guy’s gaze, which threw me off my game for a minute.”

      “Oh, was he hot?” she asks, moving toward the curtain as if she wants to look out.

      I laugh. “He was unusually hot, but we see hot guys in here all of the time,” I say with a wave of my hand. “This isn't exactly where I'd ever hook up with someone. They’re all pervs.”

      “Yeah, of course. If people knew I'm a mechanic in real life living about two hundred miles from here they’d lose their fantasy of me. I need this money, and I’m damn good at stripping,” Samantha says with a laugh.

      “Well, my bookstore is almost finished, and it won't be long till I’m done with this life,” I tell her. I trust this girl. I don’t share my other life with many people, especially in this world, but I like Samantha.

      “It’s almost open. Yahoo!” she says with an excited giggle before she gives me a bear hug that’s anything but sexy. We’re different people on stage for the men staring at us. We put on an act for the masses, but it’s not who we are in the real world.

      “I hope the store does well enough that I can leave this life behind forever,” I admit.

      “Don’t leave me, you’re the only partner I can work with,” Samantha says with her perfected pout in place.

      I laugh. “Your pout only works on the sex-crazed men out there.”

      “Hey, don’t knock sexiness. I bet you’ll sell more romance books in your little store than anything else. Besides, every story is a love story, even if the book is a thriller. If there’s no love interest, what’s the point in living or saving the planet? Sex and romance sell in every area of life.”

      I shake my head. “Yes, sex sells, that’s for sure, because underneath our cool exterior, we’re all a little sick and twisted inside. We need something exciting to stimulate us.”

      She gives me a sly smile. “That's what my handy dandy vibrator is for. It doesn’t talk back to me like men do, and it always gives me a perfect orgasm, unlike the fumbling idiots who only worry about their own pleasure. The day I find a real man to rock my world will be the day I eat a grasshopper.”

      “I’m going to remember that and hold you to it,” I tell her.

      “You’re such a pot to my kettle. You hate men,” she says.

      “I don’t hate men . . . I just don’t trust them.”

      I keep smiling, but my gut clenches. I've been through horrific things in my life. No one in this new life I’ve been living for fourteen years knows the pain I’ve suffered. I don’t use it as an excuse to stop living, but it’s certainly kept me closed up. I haven’t had one real relationship that’s lasted.

      Samantha might be the only person I come close to calling a friend. People have come and gone, but I trust Samantha. I can’t say the same for anyone else. I hope that trust never shatters. But if it does, it won’t destroy me. I've been through worse . . . through so much worse, however, it would suck to lose her.

      “We better get out there and make the rounds. I want to leave early tonight,” Samantha says.

      “I hate this part,” I tell her.

      “Me too, but the crazies want to see us on the floor, and that’s where the big tips come in,” she says.

      “It’s crazy we make so much money dancing and showing our bodies to strangers. I mean seriously, in a world full of porn, they still come to watch us live. I’m not complaining, but it’s insane that men pay us so much and don't even get to touch us.”

      “Except for the lap dances,” she points out. I groan. I hate those more than any other part of my job. “I do love my work, though. I feel sexy,” Samantha says with a wink.

      She’s right. We have to go out on the floor quickly to profit from our performance. We change into our skimpy bralettes and short skirts, paste seductive smiles on our lips, and grip hands as we walk from the back of the stage.

      All eyes are on us as we move across the crowded floor. I lean over and give Samantha a sexy kiss that all of the men can see before we let go of each other and move to opposite corners of the room.

      Hands come out and brush my sides, ass, and legs, not enough to get the men kicked from the exclusive strip club with a hundred-dollar cover charge, but enough to annoy me. I don't show my displeasure. I stop and chat, give a few public lap dances, and collect thousands of dollars in only an hour's time.

      I’m almost finished when I turn and run into a brick wall of a chest. I give the mandatory innocent giggle as I look up . . . and the sound gets trapped in my throat. It’s him . . . the man I spied while on stage.

      “Hello,” he says in a deep, dark voice that sends pulses straight to my core. I can’t remember this ever happening to me. Usually, a man’s voice sends shudders of displeasure through me. Who is this man, and why am I reacting this way? Why does it feel good instead of repulsive? What in the hell is happening? I push this all down as I plaster a fake smile on my lips.

      “Hey, Sexy. Want a dance?” I lift a finger and trail it across his hard chest. I don’t break character, but keeping my breathing steady is difficult. Holy hell, he’s dangerous. I want to run . . . and run far. I learned long ago I can survive any situation. I won’t let my strange reaction to this man cost me money.

      “I’d like to take you out of here,” he says, his eyes smoldering.

      I take a step back from him. “That's not going to happen. I'll give you a nice dance that will give you sweet dreams . . . but there are no overnighters.”

      “Everyone has a price. What would it take to get you alone for an entire night?”

      My strange attraction to the man disappears . . . thankfully. Now, I have his number, and I’m not interested in selling my body. Sure, I sell it to the highest bidder to watch me dance, but I don’t sell actual sex. Implying that instantly turns me off. I step forward without fear, or at least, certainly showing none.

      I press my ample breasts against him as I run a nail along the back of his neck and lean forward, our lips only a couple of inches apart. His hardness presses against my stomach. It takes all I have not to flinch away. I've done this for too long to be jumpy. I have this.

      “I’m far too pricey for you, sugar. Jenny is available for an all-nighter, though.” I point out another of our girls who will make men beg for mercy for a hefty price tag.

      I bite my lower lip, then laugh as I release him and turn to walk away. He grips my wrist, not aggressively, just enough to stop me. I turn and raise my brows. I'm still not worried. We have the best of the best bouncers in this place, and I'm not some sweet, innocent little thing. I can take down any man in this club. I'll never be a victim again as long as I live. I'll die before letting that happen.

      “I think our story is just beginning, Cassandra.” I lose all my breath. Before I can say another word, the man lets me go and walks away. I stand in shock as he leaves.

      Finally my feet move, and I don't pretend to flirt with anyone else as I quickly make my way across the busy area with men catcalling me. I don't stop moving until I'm safely behind closed doors.

      How in the hell does that man know my real name? Who is he? What does he want? For the first time in a long while . . . I feel fear, real fear. I quickly change, gather my things, and leave. My eyes are glued to my rearview mirror as I exit Boise, Idaho.

      I have a long drive home, and it's almost midnight. I don’t care. I want the security of my small town that’s a whole other world away from the nightlife I’ve worked for the past ten years. It’s only twice a month now, but for a long time it was nightly . . . my only way to survive.

      Soon . . . very, very soon, I won’t have to strip anymore. Soon, all of my dreams will come true. I’m in a new place with a new name and life. My past can’t come back to haunt me. It can’t. I refuse to let it. I’m so close to getting what I’ve searched for. There’s no way I’m letting anything get in my way now.

      This man doesn’t really know who I am. He's just better than the average Joe. That’s all. He figured out my name. No big deal. At least he doesn’t know my birth name. If that happened, there wouldn’t be anywhere far enough for me to run to.

      I finally realize no one is following me and put on a Ruth Cardello audiobook, sit back, and enjoy my quiet ride home. Once I'm out of Boise, it's green pastures. I’m going to be okay. It’s all going to be okay. There’s no other choice, not when I’m this close to getting exactly what I’ve been striving to get for the past fourteen years.

You can Buy it here :) https://amzn.to/3HdBvKe