Saved by the Outlaw
Saved by the Outlaw
Alexis Abbott
Part I
Saved by the Outlaw
This copy of Saved by the Outlaw includes an excerpt from the not-yet-released Captive to the Hitman, as well as the full length novels Sold to the Hitman & Owned by the Hitman. These are both independent stand alone novels with no cliffhangers.
1
Cherry
I should have worn better shoes.
Garden State, my ass, I think bitterly to myself as I awkwardly stumble through the warehouse in the dark. This morning when I woke up in my hotel room in Newark, I sleepily opened my shiny New Yorker suitcase to peruse my wardrobe options, all of which are also distinctly New Yorker in style. That is to say, they are much better suited to a strut down Fifth Avenue than a tromp through the muddy backroads of New Jersey.
Shoes, especially.
I am accustomed to sharp stilettos, suede ankle boots, and fire-engine-red pumps. None of which are particularly appropriate for a day of exploring the site of my father’s death. This warehouse is dark, dank, and definitely a stark departure from my usual haunts. I mean, I am a journalist, so you might expect me to be used to running around in unusual places, sniffing out the next big story. But because my deadbeat mom was so generous and considerate as to land me with a name like Cherry LaBeau, I’ve never exactly been on the shortlist for the Pulitzer Prize.
In fact, I’ve been lucky to score the cushy, inconsequential, lighthearted pieces they’ve handed off to me in the past. I’ve been a fashion blogger, a who’s-who editorialist, and a celebrity gossip generator for several years, and it’s paid fairly well — which is to say not much by most standards. Well enough to keep me housed, fed, and decked out in (admittedly out-of-season) designer clothes in the very expensive city of the Big Apple all this time.
It would almost be a dream job.
Except that it’s the opposite of anything I’ve ever dreamed of.
Despite the girly, tongue-in-cheek name on my birth certificate, I’d like to think there’s nothing very frivolous about me. Sure, I write the puff pieces they assign me and I wear the knock-off Carrie Bradshaw outfits they expect me to. I sign my ridiculous name with a flourish, and I dot my “i’s” with a heart. But beneath all that superficiality is a real, hard-hitting journalist, just itching to break free and finally write something of substance.
And it’s what my father would have wanted for me.
“People are going to judge you for your name, sweetheart,” he told me when I was eighteen and heading off to university to get my journalism degree. “But that just means you gotta work that much harder. Make them take you seriously. Be so good at what you do that they’re forced to say your name with respect.”
Standing in my inappropriate high-heeled boots in this dripping, musty warehouse, I have to bite my lip to keep back the tears threatening to sting in my eyes. I can’t be weak. I can’t let my emotions cripple me. I’ve got to be strong like Dad was. Especially if I’m going to find out what happened to him… and who killed him.
It’s safer to think about my shoes, something silly and non-consequential. It helps keep my mind off how much I miss my dad. The only family I have — had — left. Now it’s just me, and I swore at his funeral that I’d make him proud in the afterlife.
It’s autumn here in Bayonne, New Jersey, and even deep inside this warehouse I can feel the occasional cool draft rippling through. I shiver and wrap my black trench coat more tightly around myself. This place is near enough to the coast that I could probably just run to the beach from here if I wanted to. But not yet. As tempting as it would be to just plop down on the Jersey Shore and let the salty fresh air mix with my tears, I didn’t come here for that purpose. I have something more important to do. I’m on a mission.
So I take a deep breath and try my best to walk lightly through the warehouse. This is easier said than done because my damn high-fashion boots are about as quiet as a foghorn, and the vast emptiness of this building causes my footfalls to echo slightly. Still, I doubt anyone else would come here — not since it was designated a crime scene.
Right?
After all, as far as I know nobody even owns it anymore. It’s sat out here on a muddy dirt road, abandoned, for so long that the original owners have probably died. I don’t know what this place was even used for. Except for murdering people in secret.
There’s that God-awful sting of tears again and I angrily swallow back the lump in my throat. I’ve come too far and risked too much to let myself be done in by my own stupid emotions. I can mourn later. Now, it’s time to buckle down and get the scoop.
Alexis Abbott
Part I
Saved by the Outlaw
This copy of Saved by the Outlaw includes an excerpt from the not-yet-released Captive to the Hitman, as well as the full length novels Sold to the Hitman & Owned by the Hitman. These are both independent stand alone novels with no cliffhangers.
1
Cherry
I should have worn better shoes.
Garden State, my ass, I think bitterly to myself as I awkwardly stumble through the warehouse in the dark. This morning when I woke up in my hotel room in Newark, I sleepily opened my shiny New Yorker suitcase to peruse my wardrobe options, all of which are also distinctly New Yorker in style. That is to say, they are much better suited to a strut down Fifth Avenue than a tromp through the muddy backroads of New Jersey.
Shoes, especially.
I am accustomed to sharp stilettos, suede ankle boots, and fire-engine-red pumps. None of which are particularly appropriate for a day of exploring the site of my father’s death. This warehouse is dark, dank, and definitely a stark departure from my usual haunts. I mean, I am a journalist, so you might expect me to be used to running around in unusual places, sniffing out the next big story. But because my deadbeat mom was so generous and considerate as to land me with a name like Cherry LaBeau, I’ve never exactly been on the shortlist for the Pulitzer Prize.
In fact, I’ve been lucky to score the cushy, inconsequential, lighthearted pieces they’ve handed off to me in the past. I’ve been a fashion blogger, a who’s-who editorialist, and a celebrity gossip generator for several years, and it’s paid fairly well — which is to say not much by most standards. Well enough to keep me housed, fed, and decked out in (admittedly out-of-season) designer clothes in the very expensive city of the Big Apple all this time.
It would almost be a dream job.
Except that it’s the opposite of anything I’ve ever dreamed of.
Despite the girly, tongue-in-cheek name on my birth certificate, I’d like to think there’s nothing very frivolous about me. Sure, I write the puff pieces they assign me and I wear the knock-off Carrie Bradshaw outfits they expect me to. I sign my ridiculous name with a flourish, and I dot my “i’s” with a heart. But beneath all that superficiality is a real, hard-hitting journalist, just itching to break free and finally write something of substance.
And it’s what my father would have wanted for me.
“People are going to judge you for your name, sweetheart,” he told me when I was eighteen and heading off to university to get my journalism degree. “But that just means you gotta work that much harder. Make them take you seriously. Be so good at what you do that they’re forced to say your name with respect.”
Standing in my inappropriate high-heeled boots in this dripping, musty warehouse, I have to bite my lip to keep back the tears threatening to sting in my eyes. I can’t be weak. I can’t let my emotions cripple me. I’ve got to be strong like Dad was. Especially if I’m going to find out what happened to him… and who killed him.
It’s safer to think about my shoes, something silly and non-consequential. It helps keep my mind off how much I miss my dad. The only family I have — had — left. Now it’s just me, and I swore at his funeral that I’d make him proud in the afterlife.
It’s autumn here in Bayonne, New Jersey, and even deep inside this warehouse I can feel the occasional cool draft rippling through. I shiver and wrap my black trench coat more tightly around myself. This place is near enough to the coast that I could probably just run to the beach from here if I wanted to. But not yet. As tempting as it would be to just plop down on the Jersey Shore and let the salty fresh air mix with my tears, I didn’t come here for that purpose. I have something more important to do. I’m on a mission.
So I take a deep breath and try my best to walk lightly through the warehouse. This is easier said than done because my damn high-fashion boots are about as quiet as a foghorn, and the vast emptiness of this building causes my footfalls to echo slightly. Still, I doubt anyone else would come here — not since it was designated a crime scene.
Right?
After all, as far as I know nobody even owns it anymore. It’s sat out here on a muddy dirt road, abandoned, for so long that the original owners have probably died. I don’t know what this place was even used for. Except for murdering people in secret.
There’s that God-awful sting of tears again and I angrily swallow back the lump in my throat. I’ve come too far and risked too much to let myself be done in by my own stupid emotions. I can mourn later. Now, it’s time to buckle down and get the scoop.