Summer and Smoke Read online

  Summer and Smoke

  CoraLee June

  To my best friend, Amanda.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2018 by June Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover by HarleyQuinn Zaler

  Created with Vellum

  Prologue

  Nix

  * * *

  The coffee shop had an eclectic vibe. It was a small café in lower Manhattan. Rigid businessmen fumbled down the sidewalk, clutching their coats tightly against their bodies to ward off the mid-November chill. They all looked stressed. The world was wound up tight today, you could practically feel it in the air. My lifestyle might not make sense to many, but I liked being my own boss—and everyone else's. I didn’t have to answer to anyone or anything. Stress was just a side-effect of the expectations we allowed others to put on us, which was why answering to Summer's long lost boyfriend was making my palm twitch. That handsome mobster was a hard ass, and I'd like nothing more than to loosen him up.

  I made a mental note to bring Summer here once all the smoke cleared. She loved finding quaint corners of the world almost as much as she loved coffee. There had been times between hacking jobs where we didn't have two nickels to rub together, but I always made sure my best friend had her drug of choice—caffeine.

  I wasn't much of a coffee drinker, but I needed the energy boost. I swirled the spoon in my cup, scraping it against the edges while staring out the window. I'd always wanted to live in New York. Baltimore was fun, but there was an entirely different energy here. You were never alone. I loved the vibe. The tension.

  Moretti’s fancy burner phone vibrated in my pocket, and I slid it out of my tight denim jeans to check the alert. On the screen was video footage of Paul Bright leaving his townhome in DC. Shit. I needed to tell Moretti. Summer’s dad didn’t so much as take a shit without my knowing; my new boss had insisted on it. Moretti was one seriously sexy pain in my ass. I wasn’t exactly sure how I became his surveillance lackey, but I'd spent the last five days watching Paul Bright's every move. It was driving me crazy. A man who’d murdered dozens, if not more, was just on the other side of my screen, waiting to be brought to justice.

  Gavriel used my love for Summer to manipulate me, signing me up for the jobs I didn't want while dangling her happiness over my head. It didn’t help that her emotions had been teetering on that precarious edge of hysteria lately. Summer was suffering, and I loved her enough to suffer right along with her.

  I almost dialed Moretti’s number to let him know that Paul Bright was on the move, but I was immediately distracted by a thin, bleached blond woman walking through the front doors of the café. Clarice Bright was tall but pale. Her caked on makeup and hair extensions might have appeared beautiful to the untrained eye, but I saw her for who she was. Her carefully constructed image couldn't hide the fact that she looked absolutely miserable. Delivering my clients their ultimate fantasies had trained me to see beneath the facade. Maybe behind that fake bravado was a woman that loved my best friend, but whatever fire was once within her had long since burned out.

  "Clarice?" I called out while standing and gesturing to the wooden chair beside me. Even though I was meeting with a woman I didn’t respect, I was chivalrous after all. Blame it on my Southern roots and my beauty pageant obsessed mother. Above all else, Phoenix Bailey was a goddamn gentleman.

  Clarice simply nodded then sat down. Her pursed lips were pinched as she glared at me, and I could read each loathing emotion rolling off of her. Upon closer inspection, I noticed that her red lipstick was slightly smeared in the left corner of her mouth, and her false eyelashes didn't stick fully to her eyelid. She was wearing a dark gray pantsuit. The gaps between each button on her white cotton shirt were gaping at me, revealing a lace bra underneath.

  "Can I order you anything?" I asked with a half-hearted smile.

  "Blackmail is a federal offense, you know," she replied with a frown. Oh, so she wanted to dive right in? Perfect. I hated to waste time.

  "So is murder," I replied, cocking my head to the side. I threw her one of those judgemental stares I knew would make her squirm. I kept my manipulative meanness holstered like a weapon, only to be used in desperate times. Damn, I loved a good bitch fight though.

  Clarice didn't flinch at my retort. She didn't bat an eye or even let out a huff of air. Summer's mother was numb to the life she led, and it both pissed me off and scared me. There were moments when Summer acted unaffected, and I wondered if she inherited that trait from her parents.

  "Well, I'm glad we can skip the pleasantries. There are a few things we need to discuss. I'm sure you understand what's at stake?"

  "How do you know my daughter?" she asked, her frown deepening as she assessed my bronze skin, pale pink button up shirt and glasses. I'd recognized her almost instant unfavorable opinion of me. She wasn’t the first to make assumptions about who I was, and she wouldn’t be the last. Clarice Bright didn't approve, and I didn't give two fucks. I stopped requiring validation ages ago.

  "She's my soulmate. My better half. My best friend...and the only reason I'm wasting my valuable time to warn you.” My voice was laced with venom. “I don't think you deserve the warning I’m about to give you, but your daughter is a better person than I am." Summer had a heart of gold. It was her weakness.

  Clarice gave me another once over, an unimpressed scowl perched upon her face. She then leaned forward before saying, "Get on with it then. Paul thinks I’m at the spa for the weekend, but he has eyes everywhere, and I need to get moving.”

  I didn’t waste time. I was just as eager as she was to get this over with. "We know about your husband. We know the part you played. How you sent your daughter off alone to defend herself. We know that you're a coward." I didn't lower my voice. I felt no need to hide the truth. Although I danced around the semantics, I made sure to keep my voice even so that the innocent people enjoying their breakfast near us could hear. She looked around with anxious uncertainty, clicking her nails on the table to emphasize her discomfort. She was worried. Good.

  "I found your daughter in an alley a couple winters ago," I then said. This wasn’t part of the plan. I wasn’t supposed to divulge details of Summer's life. Clarice didn’t deserve the knowledge, but there was something that had been bugging me since learning about her mother’s role in all of this. "I just happened to take a different route on my way home. It was a shortcut. I was running late for my favorite TV show,” I said.

  Do you think the universe fights for people to be together? I've always thought the world was organized. People didn't just meet for no reason. Sometimes, things seemed too perfect to be an accident. I was meant to meet Summer in that alley that night.

  I settled into my seat, shifting and resting my arm on a nearby chair while breathing in the aroma of coffee. "She
was passed out. Half starved, lips blue. It wasn't my first time to stumble upon a homeless person. But something about her drew me in. I can't explain it. It was fate, I think. I called an ambulance and held the hand of a stranger all through the night, staring at her haunted face while wondering what brought this beautiful woman to the brink of starvation and hypothermia."

  For a flash, Clarice’s features softened, like she was caught off guard by the sentimental yet brutal honesty. I wondered if she cared about my best friend—her daughter. "How does it feel to know that a total stranger took better care of your child than you?" I asked, my voice cruel and unyielding. "You're pathetic. You’re nothing. No one. I'm giving you a chance to run because, for some fucked up reason, Summer still cares about you. But our girl’s got herself some powerful friends, now. Friends that want to see your husband dead."

  Clarice gasped and grabbed her chest. As she shifted her eyes back and forth, I took in her fearful expression. But after a moment of terror, her frown slipped into a smile. "You really think they can kill him?" she whispered, her tone low, as if she was too afraid to hope.

  My eyebrows shot up in surprise. Did she want us to kill him?

  "Yeah,” I replied.

  "Will everyone know?"

  "That's the plan. We have evidence," I lied. The asshole was good at covering his tracks. Almost too good. I was the best fucking hacker there was. Or at least, that's what I told myself. Santobello must’ve been dumping a shit ton of money into making sure Paul Bright’s recreational activities kept under wraps.

  "I see."

  I sat back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest and once again wondering how this woman raised Summer. Where was her brightness? Where was her strength? Did Summer inherit anything from her?

  "Can you do me a favor?" she asked while gathering her purse and clutching it to her chest. "Can you just tell Callum I'm sorry? I would have never told them if..." She shook her head then looked out the tinted window towards the busy street. I recognized the faraway look in her eyes. It was something Summer did regularly. She was thinking. Planning.

  A waitress walked up to our booth and tapped her pen against her pad. "Can I get you two anything?" she asked while dragging her green eyes up and down my body, and I made a mental note to give her my card before leaving. The tall waitress with plush lips and legs for days looked like someone that would enjoy my kind of fun.

  Mrs. Bright coughed, bringing my attention back to her. Her lips were once again fixed in that thin line of judgement. "Take care of Summer, will you?" she asked before standing.

  I nodded. I'd always take care of Summer. There was something innate about our friendship that demanded it. The waitress hovered, intruding on our moment. "Go back behind the counter. I'll order when I'm ready," I commanded, borrowing the stern voice I reserved for the bedroom. While I was here, I might as well make the most of it. The brunette waitress's chest flushed. Oh yes, she’d be a perfect candidate for a night in my bed.

  I went to address Mrs. Bright once more, but she had already gone, slipping out the door while I was distracted by the waitress. She stood on the busy street without a second glance. I watched her from the café window as she paused on the sidewalk for a moment, staring up at the sky as a light drizzle of rain started to fall. Her blond hair got wet but she didn’t care. It was then that I truly saw the resemblance between her and Summer. Carefree hope pulsed through her body as she stood there, not caring what anyone thought, about me, or this fucked up situation her husband created.

  She then spun around and paced back towards the café until she was standing in front of the window by my table. She stared at me, eyes blank and emotionless. Taking a moment to peer at me through the tinted glass, she reached into her purse to pull out a tube of lipstick. Puckering her lips, she dragged the chalky makeup along her pout then slipped the gold tube back inside her bulky purse. A sense of dread saturated my soul. She began digging again. Sifting through her bag, she kept her eyes on me until her hands connected with what she was looking for. Clarice Bright then pulled out a black revolver.

  I shot up from my seat. Around me, patrons screamed in terror. Men shuffled out of their chairs, not sure whether they should stop her or hide. I didn't even have time to leave the table. Couldn’t even choke out a plea for her to stop. She placed it against her temple and threw me a peaceful smile, one that held all the secrets of her sad little existence. With eyes clamped shut, she barreled through the threshold of eternity. Blood splattered against the window, and more screams broke out around me.

  I stared in awe and disgust. She killed herself. She actually killed herself. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Gore covered the window, and the sounds of the frantic restaurant went silent because all I could hear was the pounding of blood in my ears.

  Clarice Bright was finally free.

  1

  My mother’s funeral was on a Saturday. Men and women in suits crowded around my father, offering condolences and sad smiles of compassion. My father wore grief like a mask. He’d perfected the forced expression of someone who wanted to look tortured but also strong. His grey, emotionless eyes would go glassy with unshed tears as he accepted pats on the back and brief hugs.

  It made me sick.

  I never imagined that I’d be forced to watch her funeral from the safety of Gavriel’s living room in New York. Her death had caused quite a stir. Paparazzi were hounding my father, questioning him about her very public suicide. He blamed the doctors. Her grief. Her undiagnosed depression.

  Me.

  His very candid press release still haunted me. “My wife never recovered from our daughter’s disappearance. I just hope that she finally found the peace she’d been looking for.”

  I was wearing a stained tank top and some sweatpants, watching a recording of her funeral once more. It was late. After four days of rewatching it, I could recite the preacher’s sermon by heart.

  “Clarice Bright was a beacon in this world. Her achievements and volunteer work too extensive to list. The world lost a good woman.”

  I was stuck somewhere between hating her and grieving her. There was something profound about the way people picked out her good qualities to cover up the ugly inside. The media wanted to paint her as a victim of prescription pills and depression. Her friends and acquaintances described her as a saint. My father spoke of her unending devotion. They claimed this too-harsh world was too much for her too-good soul.

  But me? When I wasn’t blaming myself, I was blaming him. For the first time in my life, I didn’t let my father’s insane views of right and wrong twist me up into something I wasn’t. Paul Bright drove her to this. My mother was always too obsessed with her image, and the thought of our family’s dirtiest secrets coming to light destroyed her—not me.

  “Sweets. You can’t keep watching this,” Nix said while sliding onto the black leather couch next to me. I quickly turned off the TV, feeling guilty that he’d caught me watching it again.

  While I was busy blaming my father, Nix blamed himself. He didn’t have to tell me that he was questioning if he was too harsh or if he pushed too far. I saw it in the way he looked at me.

  “How was your night?” I asked with a guilty smile. I knew I had to at least pretend to have my shit together for Nix, he’d call me out on it otherwise.

  “It was fine. I met a lovely new couple that wanted to get to know me...intimately.” He waggled his eyebrows for emphasis. “But when I tried bringing them home, the guard didn’t allow them admittance. He said it was a security risk.”

  I winced, feeling guilty for the millionth time that I’d dragged Nix into this crazy world that had become my life. “It’s okay, you can make it up to me if you’d like,” Nix said in a husky tone, and I rolled my eyes, already knowing where this was leading.

  “Oh really? How could I possibly do that?” I gave him a coy smile, playing along.

  “Well, you could start by stripping out of these clothes,” he said while trailing his ha
nd up my arm. He slid his index finger under the strap of my tank top and pulled it down over my shoulder.

  “I want you hot and wet, Summer. I want you bent over, with that tight ass of yours in the air, lathering up your sweet little body for me in the shower,” Nix hummed into my ear before smiling against my neck, a barely contained chuckle bouncing in his chest. “Because you fucking stink. When was the last time you showered? Or even left this damn building for that matter?”

  I playfully shoved at Nix and stood up. As I stretched, he rolled his eyes at my messy appearance before picking up the remote control to the TV and pocketing it. He was worried about me. They all were. “Fine, I’ll go shower,” I said.

  Nix stood up and wrapped his arms around me, stroking my matted, greasy hair and whispering in my ear. “You, my queen, are pure Sunshine. Badass girlfriend to an infuriatingly annoying mob boss. You’ve survived much worse, Sweets. Start acting like it.”

  My damn best friend and his bossy compassionate ways were going to make me do something stupid—like cry. Again. And I was really done with crying. I was done with feeling sorry for myself and for my family.

  “Would you like a bubble bath or shower?” he asked while grabbing my hand to lead me to the bathroom. Once down the hall and at the door, we went inside, and I started disrobing. Nix bent over to pick up my clothes, holding the sweaty fabric a safe distance from his nose before tossing them in a laundry basket.

  “Bubbles. Always bubbles,” I replied in a high pitched, dignified accent. Nix turned on the water in Gavriel’s clawfoot tub, dropping lavender oil and soap in the steamy water. We’d done this many times before back in our old apartment. He’d run me a bath and wash my hair, scrubbing and massaging my scalp until the bubbles were long gone.