Black Crimson

By Linda Kage

Camille had only been heading to her grandma’s house because Gran couldn’t figure out her cable again, but along the way, she stumbled across the city’s notorious graffiti artist. And now that she knows who the face behind the spray paint can is, she can’t seem to listen to her friends’ sage advice and follow the safe path, leaving well enough alone. She’s determined to coax Black Crimson into agreeing to an exclusive interview so she can become the famous newspaper journalist she’s always wanted to be.

But in this contemporary twist to the “Little Red Riding Hood” fable, our red-headed heroine learns just how dangerous talking to strangers can be...to her heart.     

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Publishing
• Release date: Jul 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9781094447063

Linda Kage

The youngest of eight children, Linda Kage grew up on a dairy farm in the Midwest. She now lives in Kansas with her husband, daughter, and nine cuckoo clocks. Linda is a member of Romance Writers of America and its local chapter, Midwest Romance Writers.

Book preview

2

Camille

No!

For a split second, I was sure I was being mugged, and some jackass was about to get away with my purse and wallet and phone and all of Gran’s apology gifts.

Except the person didn’t run off, leaving me stranded and broke.

A firm hand caught my arm, steadying me, and a male voice gushed, Shit, sorry. You okay there?

Whew. Not a thief. What a relief.

Yeah. Inhaling a surprisingly pleasant male cologne, I opened my eyes to a face full of black cloth and muttered, I’m fine, on a miserable groan because... I’m the one who should apologize, though. I wasn’t watching where I was going.

Pulling free from his grip, I turned away to scan the ground for my fallen things. As soon as I spotted the purse, I knelt down to check on the contents, certain the wine bottle had broken and soaked everything inside.

That would be my luck.

While behind me, my collision buddy was saying, Nah, you’re fine. I wasn’t exactly paying attention either.

Ignoring him, I pulled the wine free from the bag to examine the bottle, only to let my shoulders immediately sag with relief. Oh, thank God. The wine’s okay.

But you dropped your cheese, I was told.

Huh? I twisted around and looked up to find the man’s shadowed form looming above me.

In the dark, I could tell he wore a black hoodie with the hood pulled over his head and the front zippered part tugged down enough to reveal he was not wearing a shirt underneath. Add a pair of dark jogging pants, running shoes, and a white cord that extended from either ear to his jacket’s right pocket into the mix, and it seemed pretty obvious I’d interrupted him mid-exercise.

He tugged one side of his earphones out to repeat, Your cheese. Then he extended his other hand from the darkness toward me, which contained my sealed package of Gran’s apology cheese in his palm.

Oh. Well, that was embarrassing. I’d never spilled the cheese in front of anyone before. It was better than cutting it, though, I suppose. Sorry. I rushed to my feet and reached for it, but he pulled his hand back just as I did, making me miss.

At least, I think he’d moved his hand. Unless I was so tipsy that I’d completely miscalculated the distance between us. Which was possible.

Squinting in confusion over what had just happened, I looked up as he pleasantly answered, No worries. It fell from your basket.

"Purse, I corrected, immediately frowning. It’s a purse."

Really? Huh. Looks like a basket to me.

Well, it’s a purse.

Okay, he answered with a good-natured shrug. A purse it is, then.

I rolled my eyes. Everyone mistook my beloved purse for a basket just because it was made from woven wicker.

And was probably too big to be classified as a true purse.

Plus it had an open top...like a basket.

It was like no one had any imagination, I swear.

It’s okay, baby. I petted the wicker side, soothing its injured feelings. I know you’re really a purse at heart.

Sighing over the insult to my poor handbag, I blinked at the fingers still holding out my cheese and noticed flecks of red and black speckling his knuckles with a bit of white on the cuff of his black sweatshirt that partially covered the start of a smartwatch.

A smartwatch. Hmm, strange. You didn’t see a lot of smartwatch-wearing people in this neighborhood.

Maybe he was a fairly successful drug dealer or something like that.

Who liked to jog in his free time.

I mean, you had to stay in shape if you planned on running from a lot of law enforcement, right?

Right.

Thanks, I said, reaching out purposefully so I didn’t miss my target this time. And success! I finally got a hold of the cheese.

I think, he told me, his voice amused as his hand retracted into the darkness after I retrieved my possession. "That your line there was actually supposed to be you’re welcome."

Say what?

I must be drunker than I thought.

While his voice was deep and made that inner feminine spot in me blink awake and begin to sit up, my brow furrowed in confusion because—

"Why in the world would I say you’re welcome?" I lifted my gaze to the darkened area where his face should be and squinted against the blare of a streetlight that seemed to be shining down on me with blinding brightness yet kept him completely shadowed.

Well, you just made a man’s entire day, he explained as he casually slipped his hands into his pockets. "Here, I just got full-body contact with the sexiest redhead this side of the tracks, and you’re thanking me? Nuh-uh, honey. The least you can tell me is you’re welcome when I gush a grateful thank YOU for a sample of all that gorgeous softness."

O...kay.

This guy was definitely different. I might’ve even classified him as creeper-ish if I’d been sober. But with my thoughts as loose and carefree as they were, I wasn’t really alarmed by him. I was mostly just curious about who the heck he was.

The romance-loving portion of my brain immediately decided on mafia hitman. With a heart of gold, of course.

Nice voice, hard, sculpted chest, an expensive watch, and amazing smell, plus he took care of his health. So yep, I was going with a deadly hitman who tried to appease the guilt from every kill by being an extra-passionate lover that made every woman he encountered orgasm from simply looking at him, which would explain why he had to hide his face under a hood. Can’t just set off random ladies he passed by on the street; that would get awkward.

When my body gave an involuntary shudder of longing, I decided it was time to stop daydreaming and return to reality now. I mean, in all honesty, he could be a hitman. And not the heart-of-gold type.

Alrighty, then, I said slowly, nodding at his darkness and still not sure what to think of him. I wasn’t scared, even though somewhere in the recesses of my brain I knew I should be a lot more cautious than I was being. You’re welcome, I added. Hopefully, it didn’t matter that he hadn’t technically thanked me yet. Now if you’ll excuse me…

I turned away, not willing to bank my chances on whether he was a decent person or not, and I started down the street away from him, ready to move along. I had a grandma to see. And werewolf sex to read.

Only to realize that my new mysterious jogger friend had fallen into step behind me.

Um…

Not cool. Really not cool. The beginnings of unease finally swirled through my gut.

What’s a tasty morsel like you doing out here in this dark, ominous, not-so-safe neighborhood, anyway? he asked conversationally, sounding harmless enough and not like I would expect a hitman to sound.

But you could never be too sure. Because honestly, I had no idea how a hitman really sounded.

Causing mischief and mayhem, I shot back, sending him a scowl over my shoulder and trying to scare him away with the power of my intimidating glare alone. What else?

Now, go away, sexy-smelling guy. I don’t consort with hitmen. No matter how scintillating their voices may be or hard their chests felt.

Mischief and mayhem, huh? Mmm… He made an appreciative hum deep in his throat that reminded me of a half-purr, half-groan, which smothered my fear with a strange thrill I should definitely ignore. I like the sound of that. Count me in.

Gah. I was never going out walking drunk again. My head was a complete mess. I couldn’t tell if I was turned on by this guy or scared to death of him. My woozy brain told me I should probably be scared, though. So…

Latching on to every ounce of bravado I had, I jarred to a halt and whirled around to face off with him, scowling as hard as I could and lifting my finger like an irate teacher warning a student not to talk out of turn. Are you following me?

He stopped in his tracks right under a streetlamp to reveal a tall figure with wide, powerful shoulders. The upper portion of his face was still shadowed under his hood, though, so all I saw was a bit of his nose, all of his mouth, and his jaw covered by the start of a dark beard.

But, oh, what a perfect jawline and sinfully wicked, full mouth he had.

Whoever he was, he should definitely be proud of having a mouth like that.

Lifting his hands in a surrendering motion, he said, No. Of course not. I wouldn’t think of following a stranger through the night like some kind of stalker. That would be all kinds of wrong.

Weren’t you walking the other way? I challenged suspiciously.

Was I? That entertained tone in his voice as his full lips quirked into a sexy smirk caused a jump of interest to reverberate through my stomach. I suddenly don’t recall.

Bluffing my ass off, I narrowed my eyes to make him think I wouldn’t put up with any misconduct from him.

Well, you were, I confirmed. "Now, I suggest you keep going that way." And I shooed him along toward the correct path.

But, Mayhem, he pleaded impishly, his lips spreading into an enigmatic smile as he flashed me perfectly straight white teeth and leaned against the pole of the streetlamp to lazily cross his arms over his chest. Your way suddenly looks so much more appetizing than mine.

Appetizing?

Oh brother, I rolled my eyes on a groan.

The dude was one of those consummate flirts, wasn’t he?

That type had always annoyed the heck out of me before. Except, you know, that might only be because those men flirted with every other woman around me, never me specifically. This might be the first time I’d actually hit one’s radar.

Huh. Fancy that. Maybe flirty men weren’t so annoying after all.

I eyed this one with renewed interest as he tipped his chin, motioning toward me. Hey, he murmured with that awesome, panty-dropping voice of his. "I could give you a ride to that liquor store you’re knocking over. Or is it an ATM you’re robbing? Whatever mischief and mayhem you’re causing, I’d gladly play getaway man. For you."

Okay, I had to give him props for that one. He was certainly cute and witty with the lines. Which was totally my type.

But stranger danger was real.

So I sniffed and shook my head, turning away. Resist the allure, Camille, I told myself. Resist. This guy could be anyone.

No, thanks, I told him. I prefer to walk.

Yeah, I can tell, he shot back.

The smirky amusement in his voice had me slowing to a stop before spinning back again. Did you just check out my ass? I asked in a low, warning voice.

He sighed dreamily and set a hand against his heart. I like to think of it as appreciating the scenery. Seriously, though, I never thought flannel pajama pants had any sex appeal before, but you have proven me wrong.

Oh dear Lord. As compliments went, I totally dug that one, although I was pretty sure he was partly laughing at me while he made it. The timing was all wrong, though; I still had no idea if he was an ax murderer or some good Samaritan. So instead of letting myself feel flattered, I scowled. Yeah? Well, appreciate this!

And I flipped him off before stomping away and telling myself to never wear these pants in public again.

If that’s an invitation, I accept, he shot back, keeping pace behind me.

"It wasn’t an invitation."

Didn’t think so, he answered easily, his voice way too cheerful to be bothered by my obvious rejection. But you can’t blame a guy for hoping, right?

Reaching the threshold of my patience, I spun toward him. Didn’t I tell you to stop following me?

I could almost hear him squint in thoughtful consideration before he said, I mean, not in those exact words, no, you didn’t.

Well, stop following me, I thundered, in those exact words. And if you go one more step in the same direction as me, I’m pulling out my Mace and intimately introducing you two. Got it?

But what if I just want to go in that direction now?

I jerked up my keychain, Mace in hand, and aimed it right at his face, even though I hadn’t taken the time to remove the safety lock first. Then find another way to get there.

Okay, fine. Wow. He chuckled as he lifted his hands again and even retreated a step. I suppose I can be a good boy. On occasion. But hey, Mayhem, he called when I turned away again to stomp off for the last time. Take it easy out there, alright? You look like the type who’s way too delicious for the average guy to handle. Don’t want you leaving a trail of broken-hearted carnage behind. Might get messy, you know.

Hey, creepy hooded man, I called back cattily. You got a little white stuff. Turning to walk backward away from him, I wiped at the corner of my own mouth with my thumb. Right here.

He repeated the act, only making the whiteness smear more as he drew his thumb over the smudge and then examined his hand to discover I hadn’t been lying.

On cue, his beautiful lips quirked into another entertained grin as he looked up at me. Well, that’s embarrassing.

Except he sounded as if he’d never been embarrassed about anything a day in his life.

Hmm, I said, unable to conceal my own smarmy smirk. Maybe you should consider swallowing next time.

Throwing his head back, he shouted out a laugh that filled the night with his amusement.

Damn, Mayhem, he shouted after me. I think you just became my dream woman.

Chuckling, I turned away to walk forward again before rounding the corner at the end of the street to leave him behind. Then I shook my head and sighed, sobering desolately. You better keep on dreaming, then, pal, I murmured to myself.

Because I’d never been anyone’s dream woman. And I doubted I ever would be.

I knew he had stopped following, but I couldn’t help but look back, a part of me hoping he hadn’t given up, while my rational side sighed in relief, glad he’d left me alone.

Being sly and flirty and having a heart-stoppingly gorgeous grin didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous. You couldn’t be too cautious in this world.

At the end of that block, I was still missing the stranger’s playful but completely inappropriate teasing while glad I’d gotten away from him unscathed when I turned the corner, only to jar to a halt and gape open-mouthed at the sight before me.

But seriously…

Holy wow.

Black Crimson had struck again.

3

Camille

The first thing I need to say before anything else is this:

I was Black Crimson’s biggest fan. Full stop. Period. End of statement.

Like, no one loved him more than I did. I was sure of it.

The city’s best-known graffiti artist had been gifting our streets with masterpieces of epic proportions for about two years now.

I’d first become aware of him after his third mural had hit the side of an old movie theater building, and it made the headlines of the paper where I worked.

The Evening Vigil was the biggest newspaper in town, which should sound pretty awesome and glamorous, I know, but alas, my job wasn’t quite the editor-in-chief position I’d always dreamed of getting. Heck, I hadn’t even made it into the writer-of-a-small-uncredited-article-on-the-second-to-last-page position yet.

And honestly, I would’ve been pleased with a fact-checking spot, which was the lowest-ranking place in the editing department.

Except no, I hadn’t even managed that accolade. And so I worked in sales as an ad agent, talking on the phone all day to sell advertising space to businesses for promotional slots so the paper could make money.

But, you know, my foot was in the door. And I was ready to apply for the first opening in the editing department that came up. So...

Enough talk about me.

Back to Black Crimson.

He—and I only called him he because I already felt totally in love with this person, and thus, as a heterosexual woman, I just felt more comfortable labeling him he, even though his true gender was completely unknown at this point.

The point was…

The street artist known as Black Crimson seemed to speak straight to my soul with every showpiece he delivered. He only worked in the spray paint medium and kept it strictly to three colors: black, white, and red. The image-half of his two-part murals always showcased some modern-day fairy-tale retelling, and the text-half had a famous quote that was somehow tied into the picture.

The quotes he chose could be silly or deep, but they were always meaningful and enlightening, and I somehow felt as if he’d written them directly for me. Every time.

His signature initials—B.C.—plus his black and red color scheming ways was how my paper had decided to coin him Black Crimson, which I personally thought they could’ve done a better job of, but now that he’d been Black Crimson for so many months, the very name had become synonymous with extracting a big, dreamy sigh from me.

Because seriously…

Black Crimson. (Yes, cue the sigh there.)

I thought of him as this wild, unobtainable unicorn of a creature. The man was simply a legend.

So when I came face-to-face with a new piece of artwork from my favorite spray-painter on an old brick pharmacy I had passed almost every day of my life, I jarred to an astonished halt, forgetting to breathe for a few meaningful seconds. It had been plastered under a wide overhang awning that had kept the bricks dry from the storm and was just…there.

It was so stunningly there. A masterpiece of urban perfection.

With a white background, he’d crafted the silhouette of a cityscape in black with one feminine figure in a red-hooded cloak drifting between the buildings. Above that, the quote read:

Sometimes when you lose your way, you find yourself.

I’d definitely be looking up who’d written that quote later, but for now...

I marveled over the mastery that was Black Crimson’s world. His strokes were big and bold and yet somehow elegant and flowing. It was like the perfect mix between wild and sophisticated.

It was, without a doubt, a Black Crimson original too. People had tried to imitate him, but no one had ever gotten it quite right before. You could just tell which were his and which weren’t. He had very distinctive lines and details.

I had an entire portfolio on him with pictures and articles of his work, including times and places they had shown up around town.

For some reason, it felt as if it should all make sense or add up to something that would eventually lead me back to the source.

From the outside, the quotes and fairy tales and places he chose seemed totally random. But I knew—because I felt it deep in my bones—that they were all somehow important to him.

And if I could simply connect the dots, they’d lead me back to the face behind B. C.

Until then, however, I shook my head, still trying to recover my breaths because this mural was new. It hadn’t made any papers yet, and more importantly, it hadn’t been here when I’d passed by on the street when I’d driven home from work only a few hours ago. And it had recently finished raining, so it had to be, like, new-new.

Like I was the-first-person-to-see-the-finished-product new. In fact, I could still smell the paint, it was so fresh.

Holy hell. If it was that fresh, then...

Slowly, I reached out a trembling hand to touch the fall of the woman’s cloak. Then, pulling away, I turned my wrist to check my fingertips, only to find them smudged with red.

Oh my God, I breathed, whipping my head up and glancing around.

If he’d just finished, that had to mean he was still nearby, maybe even close enough for me to catch him running away.

Man, if I caught a glimpse of Black Crimson, my day would be complete. Forget the need to finish my werewolf sex scene, I’d have to tell everyone I knew about this, and I’m talking about all four people!

Mind already leaping twenty steps ahead to me actually meeting Black Crimson in person and gaining an exclusive interview with him, which not only prompted me into the editing department but got me a weekly front-page byline, I began to race down the street, looking everywhere as I ran. But the block was dead.

The amorous hitman who’d checked out my butt in flannel pants seemed to be the only person out and about tonight besides me.

Wait a second.

The hooded, amorous hitman?

No way! I hissed, slapping a hand to my forehead as I remembered the dude I’d run into.

Hey, creepy stranger. You got a little white stuff. Right here.

It had been paint I’d seen on him. White spray paint.

And hadn’t I caught mists of red and black on his hands when he’d given me my cheese?

Whoa, I breathed.

Black Crimson had not picked up my grandma’s package of apology cheese for me, had he?

Black Crimson picked up my cheese for me, I echoed the thought aloud, feeling suddenly dazed and disoriented. "Black Crimson dubbed me Mayhem. Oh my God! Black Crimson checked out my ass."

This was too good to be true.

If I could honestly find out who he was—a secret no one in the entire city had been able to uncover—my career would be set.

Before I could think my actions through, I took off running back around the corner and down the next block to the place where we’d had our encounter.

But, of course, the hooded jogger was long gone by the time I got there.

Huffing and puffing and resting my hands on my knees to get my wind back, I panted, Dammit.

I’d been so close too. I’d talked to the guy, literally ran into him, and smelled him, for crying out loud. How could I get so close and then completely lose him?

Sighing dismally, I straightened and jogged back to the graffiti art he’d left behind, wondering how he’d been able to throw it up so fast. No wonder why he was freaking famous; he was like a ghost. His work seemed to materialize out of nowhere with little or no time for him to actually paint it.

A handful of people had gathered by now, all of them taking pictures and gossiping about how fast they also thought the piece had appeared. Meanwhile, this odd little burst of anger ignited inside me.

I wanted to shoo them away and tell them I’d seen it first; this was my art.

But that was absurd. It didn't matter who’d seen it first or took the first picture or even loved it most, it was the world’s masterpiece now. Black Crimson had given it to all of us.

I swallowed down the nip of possessiveness and crowded in with the rest of the others to take as many shots of the mural as I could get. Then, I took pictures of the buildings around it, and the street signs and shop windows, and I hurried down the block because I hadn’t forgotten that I still needed to get to Gran’s sometime tonight.

But as I walked, I started to text like crazy, immediately contacting my girls in the book club.

Sidenote: I really liked the sound of that.

My girls.

Though honestly, I’d only known these women maybe three or four months, tops—probably not quite long enough to make life-long bonds with them yet—although I was working my booty off to get to that place.

Yeah, yeah. So maybe I was a little desperate for some friendship.

The point was, they didn’t seem to mind my sporadic, off-the-wall quirkiness, and so they were the best friends I’d ever had.

They hadn’t even balked when I announced we were going to start a book club together, and better yet, they hadn’t naysayed me when I’d picked out the first handful of books we’d read. They were completely fine with the fact that I’d chosen only happily-ever-after novels to discuss.

So I had decided which day we’d first meet, and then—

Okay! Alright. I could see where it looked like I was going with this, but I swear I wasn’t typically such a micromanager. It was just that someone needed to boost us into gear. Life was—you know—livelier when all four of us were together. So I’d given us a reason to get together.

Regularly.

And so I group-texted my big news to them first.

CAMILLE: You guys will never guess what just happened to me!

As I chewed on my lip, waiting for the first person to respond, I paused at the corner of the block, waiting on a red light, and began to type in my answer.

We’d only had one in-person book club meeting together since its inception, and it had gone—well—let’s just say it had gone unexpectedly.

But it had definitely been lively, which was what I knew it would be, so…

Score one for me, I guess.

Another block later, no one had answered yet.

Everyone in the group, except me, had significant others, and all three of their relationships were fairly new, so it would make sense if they were otherwise occupied. The lucky bitches.

But geesh. Couldn’t one of them reply, at least?

And speaking of significant others, the three of them were tied to each other because of their significant others. Kaitlynn was dating Isobel’s brother. And Gabby was married to Kaitlynn’s stepbrother. The only thing that would complete the pattern would be if I hooked up with Gabby’s brother, except Miguel was only ten, so that wasn’t going to be happening anytime soon, meaning, I was definitely the odd woman out.

Not that it had begun that way.

In the beginning, Gabby hadn’t even known Kaitlynn’s stepbrother. But then—at the very first book club meeting, in fact—she had dropped this big bomb, telling us she was frigging married to him. None of us had even known she’d been seeing anyone.

And thus, an unexpectedly lively book club had progressed.

Kaitlynn—who was typically the sweetest, most-forgiving doll you could ever meet—lost her shit.

She was not happy about all the secrets, which had caused Gabby to break down crying in apology, which was freakily out-of-character for her too. So Isobel and I were left, gaping at each other in concern, not sure what to do.

But in the end, Kaitlynn calmed down enough to listen to Gabby’s story, which—okay—was kind of crazy all on its own and didn’t really explain too well why she hadn’t just had the nerve to tell us she’d even met Kaitlynn’s stepbrother, but whatever. She’d never been good with the sharing emotions thing.

It all ended with Kaitlynn and Gabby clearing out the hurt feelings and promising to never keep anything from each other again.

I think the biggest factor to help Kaitlynn get over Gabby’s secrecy, however, was the fact that Gabby had allowed Kaitlynn to organize a wedding reception to celebrate her nuptials to Hayden.

Because Kaitlynn had totally guilt-tripped her into having a reception in the first place.

And that happy gathering would take place this coming weekend. I was super psyched about getting an invitation to their party. The idea of going to a fancy wedding reception—because, by the way, Gabby’s new husband was loaded—had prompted me into splurging on a new cocktail dress to wear there. It was a bit snug in the waist and bust but flared out over my hips nicely.

I adored it.

None of that mattered at the moment, however, because I was trying to share my big news here. Why was no one responding to me yet?

Okay, screw this.

Walking as I typed, I went ahead and pushed send, spilling all my glorious information before anyone could guess what it was.

CAMILLE: I just met BLACK CRIMSON. I repeat BLACK...CRIMSON…the street artist. I full-body RAN into him on the street. And get this, he checked out my ass. And hit on me! But more importantly, look! He just finished this mural.

I sent them an image of the mural. Then I sent a picture of my hand with the red paint still on my fingers.

CAMILLE: See! The paint was still fresh. I have Black Crimson paint on me right now. Can you frigging believe that?! Feel free to commence your jealous drooling now.

And just to be an annoying pain who sent too many messages in a row on a group chat, I added one more.

CAMILLE: Isn’t this so wild and amazing?! Tell me it’s wild and amazing!

And finally, I started to get some replies. Stepping off a curb as I read, I jerked to a halt when a car honked at me for entering the crosswalk at a red light.

With a cringed wave of apology, I popped back onto the sidewalk and kept reading as I waited for my turn to go.

GABBY: What’re you doing out of your apartment at this time of night? You don’t exactly live

Reviews for Black Crimson

[Biva Siddiki · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Excellent story telling! Witty, funny dialogues. Finished in one night.

[Agnes · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

At last! Everybody got their happy ever after! I enjoyed this book series!

[Lotti Voute · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Both fun and serious, good characters but not delving very deep, even though they are (kudos for that). Great read for forgetting every stress you thought you had.

[Tara Johnson · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Loved this book and the many ways that help victims deal with abuse while suffering in silence. The blending of the family and friends with the support from everyone made the struggles easier to solve. Loved the H E A.