Authors: Marata Eros
The Darkest Joy
Praise for
A T
ERRIBLE
L
OVE
“Romantic, edgy, angsty, and thrilling.”
—Bookish Temptations
“Intense, sexy, and intriguing.”
—The Autumn Review
“I’m speechless! This book was unstoppable.”
—Book Crush
“Eros very much has this sort of skat, rat-a-tat, jazzy improvisational writing style. . . . It gives her whole entire work real character.”
—Contagious Reads
“A beautiful tale of redemption, full of suspense and mystery.”
—A Book Vacation
“Eros’s dark and twisty prose adds a depth and dimension that is addictive.”
—Martini Times Romance
“This story had a cup of dark, a quart of thrilling, and a damn pound of super freaking sexy!”
—LipSmackin GoodBooks
“A completely terrifying, gut wrenching, and beautiful story.”
—The Little Black Book Blog
“Between the suspense, intrigue, and volatile romance, I could not put this one down.”
—Books Unhinged by Stacy Hgg
“This is a great curl up on the couch with your favorite liquid date on a weekend night and enjoy kind of read.”
—Flirty & Dirty Book Blog
“The chemistry between Jess and Devin is off the charts hot, and the sex is drop-your-drawers amazing. . . . The danger element just makes the story that much better, and leaves you on the edge of your seat dying to see what happens next.”
—Always YA at Heart
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Beth Dean Hoover
“B
rookie,” Mom begins in a warning tone. I sigh but obligingly pop my earbud out of one ear. I have to actually pay attention, because somehow moms can sniff out half attentiveness like last night’s rotting dinner, even across a crackling cell connection.
“Yes, Mom,” I say with resignation. I lightly tap the brakes, trying to survive the treachery that is I-90 from Spokane to Seattle. And like any other college sophomore, I’m aching for home and hearth, especially Mom’s cooking. I survey the slick, stupid mess of the highway. I’d hoped to beat the rush.
Not going to happen.
I downshift, keeping one hand on the wheel with one ear pressed to the cell as to assist my brakes as the blue and red strobes pulse along the banked snow at the sides of the road.
What the hell? Great
, I think.
“Be careful, honey, I-90 is sloppy right now. Your father and I have been listening to the weather reports for the Snoqualmie Pass—”
I roll my eyes. “Mom,” I interrupt, trying to be the Good Daughter and missing it with the irritation in my voice. “There’s been an accident up ahead . . .” I squint my eyes as I take in the pileup. Medics are already swarming the vehicles.
“What?” Mom asks anxiously and I can see her put her hand to her heart. Drama R Us.
“Not me, Mom.” I look ahead. “There are three cars ahead of me, but . . . I won’t be home for supper. There’s no way.”
“It’s more important to have you home safely than for you to be reckless.”
Like that would ever happen
, I think.
“Did you remember your sheet music?” Mom asks as I watch the police officer’s hands, his orange baton guiding our slow progress around the crunched cars in my lane. My eyes sweep the wreckage and I swallow, my stare shifting to the blooming red that spreads underneath the huddle of medics, so red against all the snow.
Blood.
I shiver, setting the phone on my seat, Mom oblivious as my hand lands on my binder of sheet music on the passenger seat without looking. It’s full of music I practice, music I’ve written . . . audition scores as well. I’m more likely to forget my purse than to leave my music binder somewhere. I hear her tinny voice and scoop up the cell again.
“Yes . . . right here,” I say, distracted by the scene reflected in my rearview mirror.
“Good, because Aunt Millicent is coming to hear you play for Christmas, dear.”
Christ
, I think, mentally rubbing my head. My great aunt is 120 at least. She’ll never die because she’s from Alaska. She was one of the early pioneers of that area back in the forties with a bunch of other salty old crabs as she calls them.
Aunt Milli never lets us forget it. Y’know, the old story:
When we were kids we walked to school backward in ninety-mile-an-hour winds in ten feet of snow
.
My eyes drop to the odometer.
Shit
. . . thirty miles per hour. At this rate I’ll be home by New Year’s. The dark night crowds in around my Scion as Mom talks about how much Aunt Milli appreciates my piano-playing talent; she claims music runs in the family.
Uh-huh.
Blowhard
.
I scowl, thinking about the piano-playing puppet I’ve become to the family.
I guess it’s better than being that Asian kid who could speak four languages by the age of five. But not by much.
My parents have pushed me because I’m the local piano prodigy.
I’m just a girl. I never tell anyone what I can do.
What I’m compelled to do. It’s kind of embarrassing. As soon as someone knows my talent with the keys of a piano, it defines me. I wish it didn’t. I just want to be Brooke Elizabeth Starr.
Mom asks me a question. Twice.
Oops
.
“Yeah?” I say, my eyes trained on the road, the yellow dashes
making me nauseous as huge snowflakes fall. I feel like I’m trapped inside a snow globe.
“I need to let you go, honey. You don’t need the distraction of talking on your cell.” That’s Mom, conservative to the core.
I hear a chime in the background. Our doorbell.
“What’s that?” I ask anyway.
Mom hesitates. “I don’t know, we’ve kept our calendar open; just your brother, Dad and you tonight. Oh . . . and Aunt Milli.”
I give a small groan at that.
“Bill?” I hear Mom ask in a loud voice from what I know is the kitchen. I can see her in my mind like a painted picture. Her back leans against the wall, a finger twisting the long cord of our 1980s vintage wall phone. The guts show through the clear acrylic housing. It lights when it rings.
I can tell Mom’s holding the phone against her shoulder as she calls out to Dad.
There’s a muffled noise . . . then a shuffle.
Those old phones are archaic as hell but they convey sound very well.
“Mom?” I ask because it’s odd that she’s not responding. I sit up straight in my seat as the hot air blowing out of the heater vent becomes suffocating.
Then I hear a sliding crash that sounds like a load of glass falling onto the tile floor. My memories of our home floor plan go into overdrive.
Trophies . . . my piano trophies are on that glass tabletop in the foyer
.
I unconsciously clench my cell.