Blaze (The Stark Affair Book 3)

Blaze:

The
Stark Affair Book 3

by

Skylar
Cross

Copyright 2014 D2Rev
Publishing /
Skylar
Cross

First edition

November 15, 2014

Promotion: Mark My
Words Book Publicity (markmywordsbookpublicity.com)

Cover design:
Romantic Book Affairs (designs.romanticbookaffairs.com).

All rights reserved. No part
of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form
or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or
mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except
in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other
non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

All characters depicted in
this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is
purely coincidental.

Acknowledgements

Special thanks to Morgan
Black,
Brina
Courtney, Rachel Marks, Cathy Yardley,
Missy
Borucki
,
Letitia
Hasser
,
Dede
Nesbitt, Babel Td,
Kayla Ann
Bennerotte
,
LaTashia
Outlaw, all the amazing bloggers who promote me, and everyone who reads my
books and cheers me on. I so appreciate you.

Chapter
1

Sofia

According to the flashing
arrow on my laptop, Colton Stark’s Bentley, with its hidden firefly, is still
in his driveway.

I’m
on
DiLido
Island, parked on the opposite corner from
where his street meets the
Venetian,
in the unmarked
car I got from the pool.

In
TV shows and movies, cops always drive indistinct, late-model, American cars.

In
real life, we use whatever is available from the pool of confiscated vehicles.
Today I’m in a green 2002 Accord. Rear right door doesn’t quite match the color
of the rest of the car, which adds to the non-cop feel.

My burner
phone rings.

“Hello,”
I say.

“Sofia,”
says
LaTashia
, “I need a report. You haven’t told me
what you’ve learned from Colton Stark.”

I
take a deep breath. “So far, not much. He hates his dead father. Doesn’t get
along with that Jasper guy.”

“We
know all that, Sofia. Don’t you have anything new?”

Shit.

“There
may be some evidence.”

“What
evidence?”

“I
don’t know yet. Something about a flash
drive
.”

Don’t
know why I said that. I just needed to say something and I had a flash of
Colton making innuendo about a flash drive.

“Well,
find it, Sofia. And don’t let him get to you.”

I
feel a sting from the soreness in my pussy. “It’s all under control,
Lieutenant. I told you before. He’s not my type.”

“I
hope so.”

Damn,
does she know? Can she tell? Is it that obvious that I’ve been fucked
senseless?

Or
am I being watched 24/7? Shit, what if
LaTashia
is
the informant herself? What if all this is to set
me
up to be the informant?

“I’m
still on the job, Lieutenant. I can handle it.”

I
see an old Toyota Corolla directly in front of me across the causeway. The
flashing light on my laptop shows the Bentley still in his driveway.

But fuck, that’s Colton Stark behind the wheel!
I know that outline!

I’m
wearing a black beret and dark sunglasses, but I slink down in the seat anyway.
He doesn’t seem to notice
me
as he turns left onto the
Venetian.

I
start my engine. I’m about to follow when I see a light blue Buick pull out
from its spot and coast behind him.

I
turn right, following the light blue Buick across the Venetian.

“Lieutenant,
I think I’m onto something,” I say. “I’ll call you later.”

“Just
be careful, Sofia. Make sure you know what you’re doing.”

I
click off.

We
cross into the city proper to 2nd Avenue. Our little parade takes a right,
heading north.

You
know you’ve crossed the line into the inner city when the buildings turn
sharply from white concrete with glittering glass to multi-colored murals.

The
Toyota Corolla turns into a low grouping of stores with a parking lot in front.

It’s
an old plaza from the 1970s, never renovated. Been here a thousand times over
the years responding to incidents. Not too far from my dad’s house, actually.
One big block of concrete with the names of the stores in lights.
A charter school next door with a big colorful mural painted on it.

Colton
Stark parks and walks into the store marked Asian Spa. The blue Buick is in a
parking spot not far from the Corolla.

Hmm.

I
drive past, turn around, and pull over in front of the cemetery across the
street. There I sit and wait, watching and observing.

Asian
Spa?
Really, Colton?
Asian Spa? A tentacle of anger
rips into me as I picture some tramp giving Colton Stark a happy ending
massage.

No,
Colton Stark is the last man on Earth who needs to pay for a happy ending
massage. Especially after the release he had yesterday.

Inside
me.

Deep
inside me.

Thrusting,
pounding, assailing my inner walls into
a frenzy
.

Leading
me into a toe-curling orgasm as he grunts and spews a stream of delicious,
white, salty elixir deep inside me.

I
shake my head, snapping myself back into the present.

No,
there’s something else. He’s doing something else here.

But
what?

The
guys in the Buick are eating donuts.

Shit,
now I’m hungry as well as horny. Next to the Asian spa
is
a pawn shop and a dollar store. Maybe, while I wait, I’ll go into the dollar
store and grab something.

No,
I need to sit here, and wait and watch.

And
think.

About
an Asian Spa in an inner-city neighborhood.

Doesn’t
add up.

A
plump Latina woman with two screaming kids emerges from the dollar store
pushing a shopping cart full of items. Looks like she may have bought the entire
store. She begins loading it all into a ten-year old gray minivan.

The
guys in the blue Buick continue munching on their donuts.

From
my vantage point across the street, I can see the space between the strip mall
and the school next door.

I
see a tall man walking with a briefcase from behind the mall to the school.
Something strikes me about him. Looks about fifty, maybe sixty.
Goatee and glasses.
Dressed in ratty college professor
clothes.
Badly-fitting
corduroys. He knocks on a side
door, it opens, and he disappears inside.

I
get a strong sense of sexual energy from him.

What
the fuck was that? Must be low blood sugar.

I
look over at the guys in the Buick. They’re talking, throwing back the donuts,
and watching the door to the Asian Spa.

Hmm,
wonder if they sit in the same spot every day. If they do, they probably can’t
see the space between the two buildings from their angle.

Whatever.
Watch and gather info, Sofia.

At
eleven-thirty, the tall college professor-like guy emerges from the door to the
charter school and crosses the space between the two buildings and disappears
in back of the mall.

Who
is that guy? Looks way out of place.

And what was that sexual energy I sensed from
him?

Then
it hits me.

My
pussy may have solved a mystery that my brain was having trouble with. Good
girl.

Oh my God. Oh my God. I think I know. I think I’ve
figured this out. Holy shit. No, it couldn’t be. Could it?

Five
minutes later, Colton Stark emerges from the Asian Spa in his light blue shirt
and gray pants. He must have everything tailored because it all fits his frame
so perfectly.

His
gorgeous muscular frame.
With that tribal tattoo.
And
those
hard abs.

I
shake my head.

He
gets in his car, starts it up, and drives away. The blue Buick follows him.

I
stay parked, waiting for the college professor to emerge. Unsurprisingly, he
doesn’t.

Could
that have been Colton Stark in a disguise?

Yes.
My pussy doesn’t lie.

I
wait another ten minutes,
then
decide to take action.

First
thing I do is walk around the entire strip mall from the left side, crossing
the back of it along the concrete wall.

I
walk out front, past the Asian spa, past the
pawn shop
,
and into the dollar store.

Nothing
but shoppers.

I
walk across the parking lot, continuously scanning the faces of everyone I see.
Everybody looks like they belong.

I
walk over to the charter school.

It’s
a two-story cinderblock building that used to be offices, I remember. It was
all-white back then. The new mural painting makes it distinctly
Wynwood
now. I look at the cartoon kids.

One
is a black boy in a baker hat holding a loaf of bread. Another is a Latino boy
in a chef’s hat holding a plate of food. A little white girl with blonde hair
builds a table with hammer and nails. An Asian girl in coveralls is bent over a
car’s engine under its hood. All of them are smiling at me.

I
walk back along 2nd Avenue to the front entrance. The sign says Bright Eyes
Academy.

I
open the door and walk inside.

The
inside is old Art Deco-style with lots of glass blocks. A big round concrete
stairwell leads up to a corridor on the second floor. Directly ahead of me is a
round desk built into the wall. Several stacks of brochures are on top of it.
To my right is a hallway with doors to rooms on the left, glass block on the
right facing the street.

There
is a security guard in a brown uniform seated at the desk. He rises when I walk
in.

He’s
out of shape.
Bad comb-over with a big moustache.
Revolver on his right hip.

“May
I help you, miss?” he says.

“Yes,”
I say. “My boy is four years old and I’m looking for a good school.”

“I’m
just security. Let me have you speak with Eduardo the director.” He picks up a
phone. “Eduardo, there is someone here. Okay.” He replaces the receiver. “He’ll
be right down.”

“Thank
you.”

Eduardo.
That was the name Colton said into his phone outside the gym. Same Eduardo?
What was the other name he said? Carmelita.

I
look at the brochures while I wait.

Entrepreneurism
For Kids.
Grow Your Own Business.
Lemonade
Stand Day.
This school is very capitalism-focused, I see. Not geared
toward going to college, but rather hands-on business skills.
Strong emphasis on basic math.
Other classes include
marketing & advertising, customer service, and bookkeeping &
accounting.

Along
the wall are pictures of graduates. One is a young man standing in front of a
gas station smiling into the camera. Another is a girl standing in front of an
office door that reads
AudioMix
. A much younger girl
who looks about twelve holds out a tray of cupcakes. She’s biting down on a
stack of hundred-dollar bills.

“Hello,”
says a bright-eyed young man as he reaches the bottom step. Twenty-one, I’d
guess.
Good-looking in a young lean way.
Will be
irresistible in ten years. “My name is Eduardo, director of Bright Eyes
Academy.”

Seems
a little young to be in charge. “
You’re
the director?”

“Yes,
I know I look like I’m barely out of grammar school myself but I’m the
co-founder of this academy.”

He’s
wearing tan chinos with a plaid shirt. On the shirt is a pin. It’s an eagle’s
talons. I get a flash of Colton Stark’s chest tattoo. An eagle’s talons holding
a document with a quote by... what was the name
?...
Milton Friedman.

I
shake his hand. “Hello Eduardo, my name is Michelle. I have a four-year old and
I’m looking for a charter school. I thought I’d come by and see what you have
to offer.”

“Oh,
wonderful. We are a complete K through twelve
school
.
Small classrooms. Lots of individual attention.”

“What’s
the difference between going here or to a public school?”

“Our
philosophy is based on free-market capitalism.”

“Really?”

“Of
course. The United States is the strongest nation in the world because of
capitalism. The industrial revolution created more wealth than the world had
ever known. It was the foundation of the lives we all live today. Here we teach
kids that the backbone of life is work. So while we do teach English, science,
math, and history, we also prepare kids to start their own businesses because
we believe we’re all entrepreneurs. What do you do?”

“I’m
an insurance investigator.”

“Then
you are an entrepreneur too.”

“No,
I work for a company.”

“But
the company may fire you at any time,
sí
? I’m willing to bet you are a skilled insurance
investigator. So you could easily take those skills and offer them somewhere
else. Or start your own insurance investigation company. My point is that
whether you’re a butcher, a baker, or a candlestick-maker you are
self-employed. You are only as good as your skills. We are all freelancers
whether we know it or not.”

“Uh-huh,”
I say, squinting my eyes and folding my arms. “What about going to college?”