Stalking Earth for epub Read online

  STALKING EARTH

  Princes of the Potomac Series, Book 1: Blaine & Maxie

  Bonnie Vane

  Stalking Earth is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, places, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Bonnie Vane

  SIGN UP FOR BONNIE’S NEWLETTER

  And receive the FREE ebook ROMANCE BON BONS: BITE-SIZES STORIES FOR BINGEING

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twent-Eight

  A Note From Bonnie

  Other Books by Bonnie Vane

  About Bonnie Vane

  CHAPTER ONE

  Blaine Tannahill couldn’t be more bored if he were watching snails race. It’ll be a great party, Blaine. Lots of women, lots of booze, maybe some weed. One way or another, you’ll score. Yeah, right. Easy peasy. Girls, girls, girls, all swaying their hips in time to the band’s tunes, come-hither-looks written all over their faces as they guzzled more beer and laughed so loudly even the band’s amps couldn’t drown them out.

  Drowning out is what he needed most right now—anything he could do to keep from staring at Clint and Chrissy as they snuggled together in a corner, barely more than an inch apart at any given time. Clint and Chrissy, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g.

  Blaine grabbed a beer off a tray as a waiter strode past him, ignoring the waiter’s “Hey!” Whatever. He needed more numbing agents so the sight of Clint and Chrissy would be easier to take.

  How long had he and Clint been best friends? Twenty years? Ever since they got into a fight in elementary school over some girl, he didn’t even remember who it was. Didn’t take them long to realize the girl wasn’t worth their while, but their friendship was. And now, here Clint was getting married. To a girl Blaine once dated. Chrissy Alder, she of the honey-colored hair and sky-blue eyes. They’d only dated for five months, but he really thought she might be the one. Until she met Clint. And that was that.

  Hell, maybe Blaine and Chrissy hadn’t been destined for each other, but it still hurt to see her and Clint so happy. Some best friend you are, Blainey-boy. Best man, too. At least, that was the plan. Oh, he’d do his part and do it perfectly. That was the Tannahill way, right? Do everything perfectly?

  No, he wasn’t going to feel sorry for himself. Blaine carried his beer over to the band and studied their guitars. Yeah, he thought so. Not Tannahill originals, but he could have told from the sound. Guess this band wasn’t successful enough to afford one of his family’s prized hand-crafted beauties. But few musicians were that successful, unlike his idol, Gray Gem, whose sold-out tour last year set box office records.

  Blaine listened politely to the club’s band for a few minutes, then headed toward Clint and Chrissy, but was snagged by an arm around his waist. He looked down to see a red-haired woman with a gold nose chain piercing and a top that left little the imagination with a wide “V” down the middle exposing most of her milky-white breasts.

  She beamed at him, “You’re one of those Tannahills, right? I drove by your father’s mansion the other day. What a spread.”

  Her smile turned more to a leer, and she lowered her voice to a more husky tone. “I’ll bet you know how to show a girl a good time. Loosen up some of that money of yours, and we can have a really good time.”

  He shrugged off her arm as smoothly as he could, made a lame excuse about feeling nauseous—well, he was, sort of—and closed the rest of the space between himself and Clint and Chrissy, who, he’d noted, had finally come up for air. Blaine kissed Chrissy lightly on the cheek, then clapped Clint on the back. “Swell party, huh?”

  Clint pointed to Blaine’s full glass of beer. “If it were a swell party, that would be empty, and it would be your third or fourth. What’s the matter, second-rate swill not up to your liking?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. As swill goes, it’s ... well ... swill-able.” What Blaine didn’t add was that he knew his father would have a hissy fit if Blaine turned up at work tomorrow with a hangover again.

  Clint rubbed Chrissy’s hand, briefly covering up the sparkly two-carat diamond on her ring finger. “Hate for you to be bored, old man. Chrissy could fix you up with one of her friends. What about Elaine over there?”

  Blaine turned to look where Clint was pointing and saw one of the louder girls twirling around a pole, laughing and spilling beer from her mug. “She looks like a real swinger. Literally. But I’m not sure I’m in the mood for female company tonight.”

  Clint’s mouth formed a giant “O” in mock concern. “Not even Tanya? I thought the two of you were getting close.”

  Chrissy piped up. “Leave him alone, dear. Someone who keeps up the Blaine Tannahill lifestyle is bound to need a break now and then.”

  Clint laughed. “Yeah. You’ve been at it pretty hard lately. Maybe you need a time out. Like toddlers. I can drop by later and tuck you into bed.”

  Blaine smiled despite himself. “You do, and Chrissy will be looking at a man with a bloody, pulpy mess for a face tomorrow.”

  “Aw, Blaine, don’t spoil my fun. Besides, I need the practice for our future kids.”

  Future kids? Now that was the biggest shocker of the night. Or week. Or year. Clint’s jibes aside, the man had been every bit as much of a partier in his day as Blaine. And now he was talking about kids?

  Blaine looked at Chrissy as she gazed adoringly at Clint, and he realized that she’d often talked about kids while he was dating her. He’d brushed her off saying there was plenty of time for that and why worry about it now? But perhaps that had been part of the reason they broke up. That whole kid thing. Chrissy was only twenty-six. Didn’t that biological clock bit not kick in until a woman’s mid-thirties?

  He’d always thought he didn’t want kids. But seeing Clint and Chrissy together like that, obviously in love, talking about a future together that included children made him suddenly want to dash outside for some fresh air. He made another flimsy excuse about needing to get to bed early because of a busy work week coming up, but his excuses were sounding weaker by the moment.

  Once outside, he looked up at the bright stars of the Milky Way, something you could still see this close to the seashore where there weren’t as many city lights. It didn’t take long for the children’s song to start coursing through his head, Twinkle, twinkle, little star . . . up above the world so high . . . like a diamond in the sky. Diamonds that put Chrissy’s rock to shame.

  He was happy, wasn’t he? Young, plenty of money to spare—thanks to being part of his family’s glamorous guitar business. Traveling around the world, hobnobbing with some of the best musicians in the business, women throwing themselves at him, the parties until dawn. There’d be plenty of time for marriage, kids, the white picket fence,
the ball and chain. Why rush things?

  But as the images of Chrissy and Clint flashed before him, he felt a moment of doubt. Maybe the first such moment he’d ever felt. He tried to shake himself out of his dark mood, telling himself that he was happy. He was lucky. Practically any many on the planet would be happy to change places with him. So why did he feel like he’d just opened a box of toys on Christmas only to find out they weren’t what he wanted?

  Someone opened the door to the nightclub to go inside, and the sounds of the band and laughter and chatter wafted its way out to him. His older brother Cash would probably say he was experiencing guilt over standing up Tanya to come here instead. Maybe. Maybe he should go find Tanya and see if she could help rescue his evening?

  But then, his oldest brother Jack would probably say something wise and profound, like he always did, about duty and obligation and responsibility. Things that always came so easy to Jack.

  Better to just go home and tuck himself into bed. He hadn’t lied to Clint and Chrissy, he really did have a busy week at work coming up. That’s what he should focus on, the business, the clients, the employees. And forget about women for a while. All they’d been to him were trouble with a capital “T.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Maxie Cottrill stared at the book she’d been trying to read for the last hour, realizing she was reading the same few paragraphs over and over. She’d really been looking forward to this book, too. One of the big titles that all the trade pubs were pushing this season, with talk already of a Hollywood treatment. She leaned back against the sofa, allowing herself to dream for a moment, as she stroked the fur of her Persian, Greta.

  What was the glamorous Hollywood lifestyle like? Would she hate it or would she find it intoxicating, like a designer drug you couldn’t get enough of that left you craving for more and more? Not that she’d ever know since it was a far cry from the existence of a public librarian.

  She glanced over at a stack of sheet music and pencils she’d laid aside earlier. Make that a public librarian who liked to write music in her spare time. Music no one would ever hear or play most likely.

  She turned to put the book on the table next to the sofa, but as she did, her hand brushed against a photo that toppled over, startling Greta, who jumped off onto the floor.

  Maxie picked up the photo and traced her finger over the faces of the smiling couple. That was one memorable weekend she and Sidney had shared up in Washington. The Autumn weekend they’d splurged on a hotel room at the Four Seasons and strolled around the monuments on the National Mall at night, drinking hot toddies, then getting a couples’ massage from the hotel spa.

  Two weeks later, Sidney dumped her for her best friend Sheila. Talk about being gobsmacked. She’d had no clue, not a teensy little sign that Sidney and Sheila were attracted to each other. Maybe that D.C. weekend was Sidney trying to decide if he and Maxie had anything left worth saving. Or maybe it was his “parting gift,” like she was a losing contestant on a TV game show.

  Okay, so maybe there were signs she didn’t want to see. The way he liked to party nonstop and didn’t seem to appreciate her need for quiet time. And he did seem to ignore her when they were out with friends. And then there was the day he laughed at her when she said she liked to write songs in her spare time. “Write songs?” he’d asked. “Why would you want to do that?”

  Oh, maybe because she’d been writing poetry and songs since she was in elementary school, and music seemed to be a permanent part of her DNA, that’s why. Sidney had ribbed her about how a librarian’s life and income was far more stable and predictable than a musician’s. Well, he was probably right there. But when had that stopped Beethoven or the Beatles or Beyoncé?

  She sighed and got up to head to the refrigerator, where she peered inside. Day-old Chinese takeout, some eggs that had been in there for a couple of weeks, milk, and a jar of grape jam. Not very promising.

  After opening the freezer and grabbing the half-empty carton of chocolate mocha fudge ripple and a spoon, she sat back on the sofa. With one hand shoveling the ice cream into her mouth and the other hand using the TV remote to flip through the channels, she said aloud to Greta, “Do I know how to party hearty or what?”

  She stopped on a channel airing a dating game. They still did those? After watching for a few minutes, she shook her head. The woman always picked the wrong guy. Why couldn’t she see that, it was so obvious?

  With a snort, Maxie changed the channel to HGTV where a married couple who were also designers tricked out a forlorn house into something pretty amazing. At the end, the smiling, toothy pair brought in their children as they showed off the refurbished house to the new homeowners. Rich, famous, in love, and still had time for a family. And obviously for sex.

  Ah, sex. She remembered what that was like. Now that she thought about it, Sidney had given her some signs there, too, always cumming first and paying only the most perfunctory attention to her needs, as if an afterthought. Maxie shoved some more ice cream into her mouth, which was now half-frozen. What the hell had she seen in him?

  She looked over at the photo again and at his shoulder-length curly blond hair, light brown eyes, and pouting mouth. He was certainly handsome and sexy, no question about it. And he was stable, with a nice government job that paid well. And a nice, clear step-up path to promotions. And a nice title on his office door in the not-too-distant future.

  He was handsome and stable and yet—he didn’t like poetry or books or even music that much. Certainly not her kind of music. Still, as she wiped a sudden tear out of the corner of her eye and scraped up the last of the ice cream from the carton, she knew she’d take him back in a heartbeat.

  Her father would approve, for sure. Politician-Daddy had gone on and on about how wonderful Sidney was and how he’d make a great provider. At least, Dad hadn’t wanted to sue him, something he was very good at. How many people had he personally sued now? Their former housekeeper, a former teacher, a grocery store owner, and, well, she’d lost count.

  Maxie looked from the photo to the empty ice cream carton to the white cat hair on her dark clothes. The air inside her house felt suffocating, as if it were soaking up her air along with her dreams. She needed to get some fresh air, even if it meant a boring run to the grocery store. Grabbing her car keys and purse, she flew to the car as if fleeing from a demon on her heels.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Blaine cranked up the volume on his headphones and floored his red Mercedes convertible. He couldn’t put distance between himself and that party fast enough to suit him, and he wasn’t in the mood to analyze why. He relaxed into the music and the feel of the six horses galloping under the hood, not caring if he busted the gas mileage to smithereens.

  A light rain began to fall, and he welcomed it since it served as a fitting backdrop to his shitty mood. When a song by Gray Gem started up on his player, he turned it up even louder. He reached over to the passenger seat to grab a bag of jerky and looked up in time to see a silver sedan crossing at the red light right in front of him. The red light he’d just run. He steered to the right to try and avoid the collision, but that only served to make the resulting crash at an angle instead of T-boning the other car.

  He’d heard people say time stands still in the middle of a traumatic event, but Blaine heard and saw everything—the sickening crunch of metal on metal, the bits of glass and plastic flying into the air, the smell of spilled gasoline. When his car finally stopped skidding on the rain-slicked roads, he only paused a moment before jumping out of his car and running over to the other one to see if its occupants were okay.

  Spying only one woman, the driver, he tried the side door handle, but it was stuck. He tapped on the window, but as the woman lifted her head up from the airbag that had deployed, she appeared dazed.

  He ran back to his car and got a hammer tool to break the glass of the car’s window, then finagled the door open. By then, the woman had regained some of her composure and angrily jerked her arm out his g
rasp as he tried to help her out of the car.

  He released his grasp and with a more gentle touch, guided her away from her car. As she stepped down on her right foot, she let out a cry of pain and said, “I think it’s broken.”

  Not seeing any other obvious injuries, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her over to the side of the road and inside a bus shelter, where he laid her on the bench as he called 9-1-1.

  He stepped away from the shelter long enough to also call his father, who wasn’t very happy to hear from him. “Another accident, son? Am I going to have to come down and bail you out again?”

  Blaine rubbed his forehead, partly because the new cut there hurt pretty bad, and partly to wipe away the moisture from the rain plastering his hair into his eyes. “You don’t need to go anywhere, Dad. And need I remind you that it’s been six years since I had my last accident and haven’t gotten into any trouble since?”

  His father’s tone softened on the other end. “Are you injured? At the hospital?”

  “I’m fine. The young lady I hit may have a broken foot or ankle, but otherwise, I think we got lucky. And before you ask, no, I hadn’t been drinking.” Which, to his surprise, was true. He hadn’t had a drop while he was at the party.

  After signing off with his father with a promise for updates, Blaine headed back to the young woman, who was sitting up but favoring her foot. Now that the main danger had passed, Blaine noticed for the first time how attractive she was, with long dark hair hovering around her shoulders like a soft, silky cloud in the rain.

  She turned her lovely mocha-brown eyes toward him, and he found himself stammering as he stared into their depths. “My name’s Blaine. Blaine Tannahill. Sorry about all of this. I guess the rain made things slick. And maybe I was listening to my music too loudly. I’m really, truly sorry.”

  She continued to stare at him with those penetrating eyes, and he started stammering again. “Is there anything else that hurts? I have a first aid kit in my car.” He looked over at his mangled convertible, wondering if he’d be able to get inside the trunk.