You'll love Hot and Sinful Nights. 22 full length novels including...
No Strings Attached by Marie Long...
Desmond Black worked the doors of the New York City clubs for five years as he struggled to escape the haunting nightmares of his younger sister’s death. One night, he takes his anger out on an unruly patron, ultimately costing him his job. While drowning his sorrows in whiskey, Desmond meets the mysterious and talented bass player, Tianna Gadson. He senses there’s more to her than she’s letting on. The closer he gets to her, the more he realizes his feelings for her have become hazardous to them both—attracting the attention of a dangerous underground organization with its sights on Tianna and her family.
Is Desmond willing to risk his life for Tianna? Or will he be forced to keep their relationship strictly business?
Excerpt:
Whiskey tends to taste better when my brain is wrecked. Not
even the light jazz music playing on stage can soothe my nerves. My mind has
been in a week-long spiral from hell, and I wish I could just forget.
But that’s not
gonna happen. I’m a man with dignity, and I stand by my decision.
You didn’t take the first swing; he did,
I keep telling myself. Last week is a blur. That beautiful girl—what was her name? Danielle?—thought she
could sneak into the club with a fake ID and her fortysomething ‘boyfriend.’
But I’ve dealt with that shit in my line of work far too many times. Her sugar
daddy thought she was privileged to
go to this club or something because she was so young, so ‘innocent.’ No, you stupid sick fuck.
I’d expected
the usual: a plastered look of utter shock, a declaration of authenticity, and
a smirk as some rolled-up cash was discreetly forced into my hand. I would’ve
proceeded to bounce them right on their pretentious asses. But no, this guy
decided to be a punk instead, lashing out with a solid punch to my ribs. If I
hadn’t stepped back, he would’ve broken his hand on my damn near
harder-than-steel body. I’d returned the sentiment. My knuckles felt nice
across that asshole’s face. But apparently, the ‘excessive force’ had cost me a
one-week job suspension without pay. Unlike the grungier underground New York
City clubs I’d been used to for years, the elite Posh Diamond Luxury Lounge
preferred subtler means to remove unruly patrons. Thank God I had friends in
high places who were able to get my assault charges dropped.
I pick up my
shot glass and stare at its light-brown contents. I’m sure that bastard’s doing
whatever he pleases to that poor girl. He strikes me as the type, and rarely am
I ever wrong. It comes with the territory—and the job—of being around a lot of
personalities for long periods of time. You can read people, know their
intentions, empathize, almost like a sixth sense.
I down the shot
in one gulp and set the glass on the bar top with a clunk, thinking about how
fucked up some people are.
Charlie comes
over with a bottle of whiskey. “You look like shit. Need another?”
I can’t waste away like this. I made a
promise a long time ago that I wouldn’t. I nod and casually flick my hand.
“Yeah, sure, man. One more.”
The corner of
his mouth twitches, and he fills the shot glass. I swipe it up and stare at its
contents.
“Listen,
Desmond.” Charlie wipes the bar with a white cloth. “It could’ve been worse. At
least you still have a job, y’know?”
I snort. “Shit
like that gets under my skin, Charlie. There’re too many desperate people out
there looking for acceptance. For love, whatever that means.” I down the shot.
“I can’t help them.”
“No, you can’t.
For some people, that’s the only life they know.”
I swivel in the
high-backed barstool and look out at the crowd. The nightclub’s packed for a
Thursday night. Couples sit at tiny tables and loungers, and larger groups
claim the semicircular booths surrounding a small stage, where a four-man jazz
band plays. “Say, you got any work around here for me?” I ask Charlie without
looking at him.
“Nah, kid.
Joe’s got it.”
Applause erupts
from the crowd as the band wraps up. I look back at Charlie, who’s nervously
checking his watch.
“Damn, where is
she?” he mutters.
I arch an
eyebrow. “Who?”
“Marigold.”
“Since when did
you start hiring strippers?”
He chuckles.
“She’s a local jazz artist. She was scheduled for an eleven o’clock gig,
but...” He checks his watch again and frowns. “This ain’t the way to make a
good first impression. Know what I’m sayin’?”
I nod and gaze
out at the crowd, letting the lull of voices ease my mind. So many
personalities and so many stories. Some of those stories I know all too well,
like the three men in a round booth center right of the stage—players, all of
them, from their too-nice button-down shirts and designer blazers to their
flashy bling and gaudy sports shoes.
Their faces are
flushed, their eyes glazed. They laugh and make lewd comments at an approaching
waitress carrying a pitcher of beer. She hastily refills their drinks, avoiding
eye contact, turns, and hustles to another table.
“Christ, there
she is!” Charlie suddenly says, and I whip my head around.
A girl rushes
through the entrance, snaking her way through a small group of people on their
way out. She carries a black guitar case on her back. A bright-orange marigold
is tucked in the white headband holding back her shoulder-length dreadlocks.
Out of breath, she reaches the bar and plasters an exhausted smile on her full
lips. “Hi, I’m Marigold,” she says between pants. “Sorry I’m late.”
Charlie’s lips
form a thin line. “S’alright, Miss Marigold.” He gestures to the stage with his
head. “Go on. Your audience awaits.”
She smiles
graciously and brushes past me. For a brief moment, we lock eyes. She’s got
those doe eyes, brought out with a little makeup. She’s beautiful. Her gaze
falters and moves to a point beside me, as if she’s overwhelmed by the initial
contact. I sense beyond that beauty, she carries an ugly story.
She gets up on
stage, sits on the stool, and retrieves her bass guitar and a small MP3 player
from her backpack-like case. It takes her less than a minute to set up. She
does a quick tune of her strings then smiles at the audience. The stage track
lights shine on her smooth mocha skin and bring out the bright red of her
halter-top.
“Hi, everyone.
My name is Marigold. Thank you for having me here tonight. I hope you’re all
enjoying yourselves.” She scans the room as she talks, her eyes settling
briefly at the bar—on Charlie, most likely. Lucky
son of a bitch.
A mix of mellow
drum and piano accompaniment filters through the stage speakers, and Marigold
starts to play. Her fingers glide across the strings with ease as she produces
some articulate vibes that I can’t help bobbing my head to. The audience falls
silent, puts down their phones, and stares attentively toward the stage, moving
their bodies in time with the beat.
Then she starts
to sing. She doesn’t need a mic. Her beautiful voice, relaxed and flowing like
smooth velvet, carries throughout the room, complementing the low, mellow
strums of the guitar.
“...Why, oh why, do the birds gotta fly?
Fly so far, far away from me?
Why, oh why, can’t I spread these wings?
Spread these wings and fly so free...”
“Wow” doesn’t
even begin to describe her multiple talents.
Charlie tends
to a patron a few stools down then returns to me.
“She’s good,” I
say.
Charlie nods.
“Yeah. I guess I can forgive her for being late just this once.”
Smiling, I look
back at her. She’s fearless as she sits up there alone, strumming her heart
out. But fear and doubt are definitely in her. She reminds me of Little Miss
Danielle, except Marigold looks several years older. Marigold’s song speaks of
what I can see in her eyes. She sings about pain and running away, but she
hides it in her catchy tune. The audience seems none the wiser.
My smile fades
as I look at the group of guys in the corner, who appear pretty damn close to
their drinking limits. They eye Marigold like a pack of hungry wolves.
Thankfully, they stay put and quiet while she plays. Wandering waiters and
waitresses keep their drinks coming.
Marigold sings
four more songs, and before I know it, it’s already midnight. Marigold’s show
is over. She rises from her stool, bows, and receives massive applause from the
crowd. Even the drunk guys are on their feet, clapping wildly and whistling.
She packs up her things. Some audience members make their ways to the exit.
I release the
breath I’d been unconsciously holding. “Wow, Charlie, you have got to have her back here.”
“I plan to.”
Charlie grins. “That was the loudest applause I’ve heard all night. Not bad for
a stripper, eh?”
It’s my turn to
laugh.
Marigold stops
at the bar and smiles at Charlie. “Thank you so much for letting me play. And
I’m sorry again for being late.”
Charlie shakes
his head. “Don’t worry about that. You did a good show. When are you available
to come back?”
Her doe eyes
widen. “Whenever you want me, sir!”
He grins.
“Okay, how about this Saturday? Same time?”
“That’s
perfect! I will be here. Thank you so much.”
They shake
hands, and she brushes past me again. The side of her guitar case bumps into my
arm. She stops and turns around, her face flushed. “I’m sorry, sir.”
I smile at her
cute look of embarrassment. “It’s all right. Hey, you were pretty good up
there. Great show.”
“Thank you.”
I look at the
case. “Do you need some help with that?”
“No, I got it.
Thanks.” She heads for the exit.
I watch her
leave, taking in every bit of her from behind. When she’s gone, I face Charlie,
who smirks at me. “Ever the gentleman, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, and what
of it?” I puff out my chest.
He laughs and
moves farther down the bar, gathering up the empty wine and shot glasses.
I glance out at
the rest of the club. The crowd’s gotten considerably thinner. I look for the
guys in the corner, but they’re gone. A waitress is busy cleaning the table
with a grateful look on her face.
Remembering the
primal way those guys ogled her, I feel my throat tighten. Did those guys leave with Marigold? She couldn’t have gone far
unless she took a taxi home. I tap the bar to get Charlie’s attention. “Hey,
I’ll see you later.”
Charlie gives
me a small salute and turns to another group of customers. I grab my baseball
cap out of the empty chair next to me and hurry outside. Even on an early
Friday morning, Midtown Manhattan is still busy. I look around for any signs of
Marigold, but she’s nowhere to be found. Shoving my hands in my pockets, I
cross the street toward the subway station. A small crowd emerges, and
something on the stairs catches my eye. I stop. On the second step is an orange
marigold, trampled by many feet. My skin prickles. Is she in trouble? I look down the stairs. A few more people come
and go, brushing past me as though I don’t exist. I head underground…
About the Author:
Marie Long is a novelist who enjoys the snowy weather, the mountains, and a cup of hot white chocolate. She’s an avid supporter of literacy movements like We Need Diverse Books (WNDB) and National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo).
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Sylvie Fox is the author of smart women’s fiction. Her compelling stories are boldly told, designed to keep readers turning the pages. Whether you’re reading Sylvie’s romantic women’s fiction or legal thrillers, penned as Aime Austin, she wants you to enjoy the heroine’s journey. She splits her time between Los Angeles and Budapest, where she enjoys yoga, knitting, farm-to-table cooking, and life with her husband and son. When she’s not writing, her nose is stuck in a book.