Beneath the Lights

By Leslie Johnson

Harbor

There’s something to be said about the sweet taste of freedom that comes with adulthood. Nothing enhances that sensation like moving away from Podunkville, Kentucky. I had to get away; there weren’t any opportunities that would afford me the life of luxury I’d worked so hard for. My parents didn’t approve of my ambitions — taking the world by storm with my degree in Fine Arts. I'm only twenty-one years old, but now the New York City skyline is my personal stage. I had to take the leap, as scary as it was. A girl’s gotta chase her dreams, right? My luck can’t get any better than living beneath the lights.

Ian

New freakin’ York. What’s so exciting about this city of concrete and steel? When Strong Enterprises, hits the ground running, I’ll be on the first flight back to Malibu. The cool ocean breeze is calling my name. What the hell? As my car collides with a young woman who stumbles into traffic, I know my luck couldn’t get any worse. That is, until my eyes fall upon her broken form and I’m immediately consumed with her beauty. 

New York may have its drawbacks, but Beneath the Lights is where true love hides.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Atrevida Publishing
• Release date: Apr 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386029700

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Beneath the Lights

Leslie Johnson

Atrevida Publishing

Copyright © 2017 by Leslie Johnson

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.

Contents

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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

Epilogue

Claiming Nina

1. Nina

2. Adam

3. Nina

4. Adam

5. Nina

His Saving Grace - The Prequel

Also By Leslie Johnson

About the Author

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One

Harbor

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"In your face, Mom and Dad. Harbor Justice made it to New York City all by her little self," I say to the row of missed calls on my phone display. Then I quickly send a text telling them I’m here so they won’t worry.

I take a shaky breath and stare up at the beautiful skyline through the windshield of my Ford Focus. At least, what I think would be a beautiful skyline if I could see past the dilapidated-looking apartment building in Koreatown. Frowning, for the third time I check my text messages to verify I’m at the right address for my new home.

Koreatown is way sketchier than I expected it would be. The buildings are a dingy brown-gray, the block peppered with signs for businesses in both English and Asian, selling everything from noodles to nested dolls. People walk past each other without acknowledgement.

I grew up in a small town where everyone knew everyone else’s business. New York is bigger. A lot bigger. It’s just going to be an adjustment, getting used to not knowing everyone.

Taking a deep breath, I let a smile stretch across my face. This is what I’ve always wanted. My dreams are coming true!

When I played Betsy Ross in kindergarten, I was positive I found my calling. And if it wasn’t for my parents, I know my name would already be up in lights. I would’ve been on the road before the ink on my high school diploma dried.

As much of a pain in the butt they are, I love and respect them. So years ago, I promised to get my college degree and teaching credentials before leaving home to find my fame. They wanted me to have something to fall back on and teaching was the logical choice since that’s what both of my parents do for a living—and live and breathe. They met and fell in love at a teachers’ retreat, so they think teaching is in my blood. That acting is some flighty fantasy of mine.

At twenty-one, I’m finally going for my dream. I’d worked three waitressing jobs during school and saved all my tips, spending money only on necessities.

Now, my savings account is padded with enough money to get me through until I land my first job—hopefully on the stage—but waitressing would do until my big break happens.

Since I was stuck in Podunkville, Kentucky, my agent, Mitch Southerland, set me up with an apartment in the city sight unseen.

My agent. I have an agent, I scream at my reflection in the rearview mirror, banging my hands on the steering wheel, grinning like a fool. Mitch Southerland is a real, true-life agent like all the celebrities have. And he accepted me as a client when my two-thousand-dollar check cleared, with a promise that I was on the road to fame.

My dad made it a point to research New York until his eyes crossed. The whole time, trying to scare me out of moving. The statistics he listed of the crime rates made me doubt my decision, but my dream just wouldn’t die. When Mitch searched for an apartment, my dad made me promise I would only take one in Manhattan, where the crime rate wasn’t so high.

My smile dropped a notch. From the looks the grungy apartment building, maybe I should have taken my dad’s concern more seriously.

Shrugging, I stare into the rearview mirror and school my features into what a confident New York girl would look like. My blue eyes clear of both excitement and trepidation as a serene façade takes over my face. Those acting classes worked. I fix my blonde ponytail and swipe my bangs, making them lay perfectly over my forehead. It’s silly for me to act as if the paparazzi are waiting for me to step out of my car, but why not start practicing now?

I won’t make it a day in this city if I let on I wasn’t meant to be here. My fears need to be hidden so nobody can see the naive country girl I left back in Podunkville.

I get out of my car and start to walk away before remembering to lock the door. Locking the doors is just another thing I’m going to have to get used to now. Except the lock on the building entry door is broken. That can’t be good. I make a mental note to email the landlord about it and punch the elevator button. But nothing happens. Apparently, the elevator isn’t coming. My heart drops a little, but I lift my chin. A little exercise using the stairs isn’t going to hurt me. This is probably a blessing in disguise.

The narrow stairwell has a strong smell of garlic and it makes my stomach roll over, but I keep going. This will be a story that will go into my book when I’m a famous theater actress. Wanting to remember the details, I scan the stairwell, memorizing the scribbled obscenities and am delightfully grossed out by a used condom. I smile at my craziness and take two steps at a time.

When I reach the door with a gold 5B sticker, I knock. Mitch texted me this morning that somebody would be waiting for me. The plan is to unpack and meet him for dinner later tonight. I knock again, trying the knob—locked—refusing to let my smile falter.

My next knock is more of a bang, panic rushing up my spine.

I will not give into my fear. I’m a New York City girl now. A badass. Sometimes even badass girls have sweaty palms and shaking hands.

Scooping my phone out of my purse, I stab the call button to get Mitch on the line.

When Mitch’s voicemail picks up, I leave a somewhat calm message asking where the heck he is. My phone almost slips from my hand as I text Mitch as well and wait for a response. I blink frustrated tears away and inspect the not-painted-in-years door that stands between me and my much dreamed of first apartment.

There was a nice-looking coffee shop down the street. Maybe I could hang out there until I get ahold of Mitch. With a plan in place, I lift my purse farther on my shoulder and move away from the door.

My breath hitches at the two burly looking men climbing the stairs. They’re walking in single file since the stairs are so narrow, making it impossible for me to escape until they pass by.

With nothing else to do, I press myself against the unyielding door of my so-called apartment. The man in front keeps his eyes on me as I watch through my lashes, praying they hurry up and pass. Just as he is about to walk by me and I think I’m in the clear, his large, meaty hand grabs my forearm. My mouth opens to let out a scream but it never passes my lips as burly jerk number two covers my mouth and burly jerk number one presses a knife to my neck.

You’re not going to make a sound. Do you hear me? Burly jerk number two’s hot breath washes over my cheek, cooling the tears already streaming down my face.

I nod and turn as they point the way downstairs. All I can think is that down is good. I should have listened to Dad and bought a can of mace on my way out of town.

That’s a smart girl. My partner’s going to go ahead of us and you’re going to walk in the middle. When we get to your pretty little car, you’re going to give us the keys and be a good little girl and get in the back. I promise, if you listen and don’t cause any trouble you’ll get to keep your adorable little life. He makes direct eye contact, his flat brown eyes searching to ensure I understood his words.

The fear on my face must show, because he moves to go down the stairs. The guy in front keeps the knife on me the whole way down the stairs and to my car. Surely someone will see and come to my rescue.

Get out your keys, jerk number two orders.

When I put my head down to go through my purse, the knife eases away and I have the urge to run, scream. All the horror stories my dad told me about race through my head.

Don’t even think about it, one of them hisses, and the moment to escape is lost as I’m shoved in the back seat.

Where are you taking me? I ask, not bothering to hide the tremor in my voice.

The knife dude climbs in the back with me and sits silently as the other man gets behind my steering wheel, adjusts the seat and pulls out, cruising at the speed limit. In moments we have left Koreatown behind.

Realizing just how stupid I was for getting in the car, I force sheer panic down. My mom always warned me about sex trafficking rings running amuck in big cities. I sniffle as I think about the life of sex slaves I’ve seen documented on TV. After this little joy ride ends, that could be me.

Helplessness settles into the pit of my stomach as we pull into a deserted bank parking lot and park the car. This is it, my fate is going to be decided by two men who smell like salami.

Using his knife, my kidnapper slices the straps to my purse, pulling it from under my clenched arm. As he rifles through it until he retrieves my bank card, anger joins the assortment of emotions churning through me.

What’s your pin number? Knifey asks, handing my card to the driver.

I glance from one man to the other, stalling. I can’t let them do this. I don’t use my pin number. I only use the card as credit.

The man in the front seat grins and his teeth are a ghastly yellow-brown color, some of them missing. For a minute I’m sure I’m going to puke in my own car.

That’s bullshit. You’re going to give me your pin number or I’m going to take it from you. His eyes drop to the peak of cleavage showing above my V-neck shirt and I shudder.

Suddenly, money doesn’t matter so much. I’d rather give them everything I have than risk being raped. Right now, they could do anything to me they want.

I mumble my pin to him, telling myself I’m going to get out of this alive. He gets out, going over to the ATM. Sure, having all my savings drained is an awful way to start my newest chapter, but if I can keep my life and my virtue, I’ll be grateful.

Burly jerk number two gets back in the car, my measly savings now stashed in his jacket pocket. He gives Knifey the thumbs-up and before driving into a dark alleyway.

Wait, you said you wouldn’t kill me if I cooperated. It comes out as half-whisper, half-squeak and I’m ashamed of my fear. I wish I knew self-defense so I could elbow the guy next to me in the jugular, take his knife and take over my car again.

And we seem like upstanding citizens to you? Do we look like the type of people that keep their word? The driver turns and gives me an evil grin as he puts the car in park.

My knees are quivering and I hate that these two jerk-faces are making me wrong and my parents right. I wonder if they will put I told her not to move on my tombstone.

Get out, good ole Knifey orders.

I pray my legs will hold me up as I scoot out of my packed car. Everything I hold dear and need for my rise to fame is loaded in it. The gifts and money my friends gave me for going away presents are stashed inside my trunk. Pictures and journals are in a box right next to my suitcase. Everything.

Exiting at the same time, the driver sneers as he pulls me to his muscular body. Now, I did make a promise to let you live but I didn’t tell you how close to dying you were going to get.

I shudder as his erection presses against my stomach.

Stop messing around, Skin. We have what we need. Let the little thing go. With her looks, I don’t think it will be hard for her to get back on her feet. Knifey pulls me out of Skin’s grasp and pushes me to the ground. The dirty alley is dark, debris is scattered, broken glass strewn around.

I was just having a little fun. Skin pouts.

Come on.

With one more look at me, Skin and Knifey get in my car and drive away. I watch as the brake lights disappear and my entire life drives away.

I grit my teeth. Not my entire life. I’m still alive, and this will just be another exciting chapter in my tell-all book that will be made into a movie.

My muscles scream with aches as I stand and brush the grime off my new skinny jeans. Looking around, I’m not sure where to go. There’s no one on the sidewalks and no cars passing to flag down. I have no idea where I am.

Think, Harbor.

I’m lost in a city I have never been to, have no money, no possessions and was just accosted by two men who left me alone in a disgusting alley after threatening to rape and murder me. Right now I need to be anywhere but here.

I look down the street in the direction my car disappeared and turn the opposite way, making my feet move. Making my body obey as run, run plays over and over in my head.

Two

Ian

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If I didn’t hate New York already, today was the tipping point of my loathing for this godforsaken city.

Cutting over to the far lane to try to avoid the traffic piling up, I ignore horns blasting. Living here the last six months has been a complete nightmare and I now understand why property in California is so pricey. It’s because nobody in their right mind would want to live in New York.

In fact, if I meet anyone who is here on their own free will I will personally drive them to the insane asylum and check them in—if I can find the damn thing. Anyone who would live here on purpose is in need of psychiatric help, and what can I say, I’m a problem solver.

When I left California to start the East Coast branch of my company, Strong Enterprises, I promised myself I would only be here for a year. Six months in this purgatory is making me rethink my decision. In my mind, a year was just enough time to get my company up and running, then I would be back to tanning on sandy beaches, this place the last thing on my radar.

Only halfway through and I’ve already found most of the right people to run the East Coast branch. People I’ll check in on but for the most part trust enough to keep Strong Enterprises in business and paying for itself.

I’m very successful because I work harder than anyone I employ. I go in, build a business from