The Kiss Stealer

By Pepper Pace

Kara is a tattooed, pierced, bike-riding orphan who has just lost her adopted mother and father. She is now on her way to a small southern town to search for her birth parents. Apple Valley North Carolina is steeped in southern tradition Kara stands out among the God-fearing, traditional occupants. But one man doesn't seem to mind, seems to even prefer Kara's city-ways. Noah Drinkwater knows everyone and intends to help Kara in her search, not just for family but maybe even for a place that she can call her home. The Kiss Stealer first appeared in the box set Sexy Southern Hometown Heroes, published December 2016.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pepper Pace
• Release date: Feb 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370822478

Pepper Pace

Pepper Pace stories span the gamut from humorous to heartfelt, however the common theme is crossing boundaries.Pepper's unique stories deal with taboo topics such as mental illness and homelessness. Readers find themselves questioning their own sense of right and wrong, attraction and desire.In addition to writing, the author is also an artist, an introverted recluse, a self proclaimed empath and a foodie. Please check out her e-book trailers on this page! You may contact the author at [e-mail] the Pepper Pace Newsletter and receive free stories! http://eepurl.com/bGV4tb

Book preview

The Kiss Stealer

Pepper Pace

©Pepper Pace Publications

Copyright © 2015, 2016, 2017 Pepper Pace. The Kiss Stealer first appeared in Sexy Southern Hometown Heroes. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, except for short excerpts appearing in book reviews. For reprint or excerpt permission inquiries, please contact the author by e-mail at: [e-mail] or http://pepperpacefeedback.blogspot.com

This novel is a work of fiction. Characters – including their names, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are otherwise used fictitiously. Any similarity from this book to events occurring in real life – including locations, or persons living or dead is wholly coincidental. The use of musical titles and the naming of musical artists is not an infringement of copyright per sections 106 and 106A, the fair use of a copyrighted work.

Kara is a tattooed, pierced, bike-riding orphan who has just lost her adopted mother and father. She is now on her way to a small southern town to search for her birth parents. Steeped in southern tradition Kara stands out among the God-fearing, traditional occupants. But one man doesn't seem to mind, seems to even prefer Kara's city-ways. Noah Drinkwater knows everyone and intends to help Kara in her search, not just for family but maybe even for a place that she can call her home. The Kiss Stealer first appeared in the box set Sexy Southern Hometown Heroes, published December 2016.

Thanks to T.M.

Chapter One

I stood beside my mom’s fresh grave feeling the cold December air whip along my face and hair. Everyone had already left, allowing me to say my goodbyes in private.

Of course I beat myself up for being a shit of a daughter, who lashed out at my adopted parents because another set of parents had given me up. I spent the last year trying to make it up to my mother just as I had tried making it up to my dad the last year of his life. Now, I understand that you can’t un-remember the pain you cause someone when you are standing all alone at their grave.

I dug the Oakley sunglasses from my breast pocket with stiff, cold fingers and slipped them on carefully since one earpiece had a crack. Oakley’s cost too much to get rid of just because of a little crack. My eyes were swollen behind the shades due to my many tears, but no one else would know or care.

I walked down where I had parked my Harley Davidson Low Rider and checked that the saddlebags were secure. After all, they contained all of my earthly possessions.

I secured my half-face helmet. It was kind of beat-up. What was once black leather was now faded gunmetal grey with a skeleton motif that looked pretty wicked because it had been scraped all to hell by asphalt. The guy that I’d gotten it from had gone the way of my parents’, although not because of a motorcycle accident, and not at the hands of cancer or complications to diabetes—but due to the unforgiving pierce of a heroin needle.

There but for the grace of God go I…

When I was eighteen years old I was allowed to unseal my adoption records and I learned that I'd been born to Mary Margaret Carlisle. Afterwards I would stare at myself in the mirror and wonder about a girl named Mary Margaret and a man named 'unknown'.

Mom and Dad never hid from me the fact that I was adopted. Not that you could mistake it. Mom and Dad were average Caucasians but I had something exotic in me that gave me an olive skin tone and thick dark hair.

Sometimes I thought I might be mulatto and at others I speculated that I could be Greek, and when the Kardashians were at the height of popularity I went through a phase of being a proud Armenian. In truth Race means nothing to me considering that I’d grown up with no idea of my origins. When I was finally allowed to open the sealed files I was surprised to learn that I was just a regular white girl.

I wondered if I looked anything like Mary Margaret, or did I resemble Unknown--the name I’d given my birth father.

She was seventeen when I was born. There was no age listed for Unknown, which messes with my mind. Was he a rapist, pedophile, childhood boyfriend or a douche that knocked her up and left her to carry the baggage all alone? For years I pretended that I didn't care about these people. At that time I was wallowing in my own self-pity.

I located Mary Margaret living in a small town called Apple Valley. But I couldn't bring myself to contact her. On my twenty-first birthday I got wasted and dialed the phone number that I had gotten from directory assistance.

I hung up before she answered, not high enough to forget the promise I’d made myself—that since she was the one to give me away, if she wanted to know me she’d have to find me.

I'm no longer mad at Mary Margaret--at least now that I'm twenty-four and not a twelve year old who equates being adopted with being unwanted.

I want to understand what was in my birth mother's heart. I want to know her story. I want to know my own history.

From what I could tell in the fading daylight, Apple Valley North Carolina felt old fashioned and trapped in a time warp. It was December in the south and although there was no snow it was damned cold—especially since I was riding a motorcycle. There were plenty of twinkling lights and decorated palm trees. Driving down Frankfort St, which apparently was the main stretch of road that cut through the small town I saw no trendy hipster bars or boarded up buildings that hinted to decline, not even any teens roaming around trying to look tough.

Of course I wasn't there exploring but I did have to drive around a bit in order to find a hotel or some place to stay. It seemed those were in short supply—a sure fire indicator that this was no mecca for vacationers.

As I drove my mind pulled me back to thoughts of the last several weeks and the way the cancer had come back with a vengeance, destroying everything that I remembered about my vibrant mother. She tried to hang on until after the Holidays, actually explaining to me that she didn’t want to spoil my Christmas.

Tears slipped down my face as I drove. What the hell did I care about Christmas? But mom kept pushing for me to find my birth parents. It felt like such a betrayal to even think about that. How could she think that I could replace my adopted parents with two people that didn’t even want me?

But while making Mom’s final arrangements it finally sunk in. I am alone…

I pulled myself away from those thoughts when I drove right past a brick building that looked like someone's house. But it had a weathered sign above an enclosed patio that said ‘Motel’ and beneath it were the painted words 'vacancy.'

I turned around right there in the middle of the street and drove up into the driveway. North Carolina in early December was a damn sight warmer than Cincinnati, but by the time I finally pulled up into a motel my face was stiff from the cold.

There was an old Buick parked there next to a Ford pick-up truck. I checked the time and saw that it was just after 8 pm. I stretched and then hefted my saddlebags and headed up the porch stairs.

An elderly couple was sitting across the street on their front porch, watching me. They didn't wave so I didn't either. Hmmm, people in Apple Valley actually sat on their front porches and watched their neighbors openly instead of peeking at them from behind their drawn curtains.

I stepped onto the screened porch, feeling even more strongly that I was walking up to someone's home. There were a set of rockers, a porch swing and it was decorated shabby chic--only I didn't think the owners did it to be trendy. A wreath made of garland and faux fruit adorned a front door which had a window sheathed by translucent curtains that allowed me to look inside.

I made a move to knock on the front door before remembering that I wasn't here to visit someone. The door was unlocked and I walked in feeling like I might get shot for trespassing. I heard a buzzer sound somewhere within the home and I felt a little better, especially since it was a damn sight warmer.

The entrance was cozy with throw rugs covering the hardwood floors. There was a room to the right that looked like a parlor. It had furniture with spindly legs and flowered fabric--a little fancy for my taste but I knew most people liked this sort of thing. I could see a huge Christmas tree with so many