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  Free Me

  Grahame Claire

  Free Me (Free, Book One) Grahame Claire

  Copyright © 2020 Grahame Claire

  All rights reserved. No part of this book can be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without the express written permission of the author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Editing And Proofreading:

  Marion Archer, Marion Making Manuscripts

  Karen Lawson and Janet Hitchcock, The Proof is in the Reading

  Jenny Sims, Editing4Indies

  Cover Design:

  Hang Le, By Hang Le

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-951878-02-3

  For those who have the courage to chase their dreams.

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Enjoy this book?

  Bonus Scene

  Book Stuff

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Grahame Claire

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Trish

  “Mr. Hardaway, this is the third piece of cake you’ve had today.”

  He snatched the container from my hands. “If you didn’t want people to buy it, you shouldn’t make it taste so delicious.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek to hide the smile threatening to break loose on my face. The cranky old man had been a customer since the first week I opened my food truck. Dutifully, he came by every day, and every flavor of my cakes were his favorite.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  He dropped his change in the tip jar, grumbling, “How’s Ella?”

  I beamed at the mention of my baby girl. “Growing so fast.”

  “Get used to it. She’ll be a teenager next week.”

  Mr. Hardaway clutched his container of cake as he ambled away.

  “See you tomorrow,” I called.

  He threw a wave over his shoulder but didn’t turn around. I couldn’t stop my smile as I watched him go. In six months, he’d become a favorite of mine despite his surliness. What was not to love? I was due to close up shop in five minutes, and he had to come get another sugar fix.

  I lifted my arms to unlatch the window.

  “Am I too late?”

  I started at the masculine voice, something about it familiar.

  “Almost,” I said, snapping the latch back in place. “I’m out of the short ribs and stuffed chicken.”

  The man studied the chalkboard menu mounted on the side of the truck, and I propped my hip against the counter. A few hours on my feet every day was still tiresome, though I was getting used to it. The ache in my muscles came from hard work, which made it totally worth it.

  “I’ll have the . . .” The man’s eyes lingered on the menu, his internal debate evident in his voice. “The . . .” Decision finally made, he looked at me, lips parting. A shadow of horror flashed through his irises, and he backed up. “Um, never mind.”

  What in the world?

  He darted away, disappearing down the street before I could get a word out. Why did he look at me like that? Crap. Why?

  Trish, come on. Everything’s fine. The guy just changed his mind. Nothing more. That happens. This is New York . . .

  My heart raced, fear clutching me by the throat. I inhaled again. This time, more air filled my lungs than the last. I repeated it until my pulse returned to normal. With shaky hands, I closed the window and prepared to shut down for the day.

  I was safe.

  Mrs. Quinn would have told me if she thought there was a chance of . . . No. She took care of the residents of Paths of Purpose and not just because it was her job.

  I pulled out my phone and fired off a text to her.

  Nothing new, right?

  Immediately, she responded.

  No. Did something happen?

  I hesitated. I was supposed to be trying to learn how to live in the real world again. That meant standing on my own two feet. It also meant knowing when to lean on people.

  I’m okay. We’ll talk later.

  I wiped down the counter and secured the loose items for the journey to the parking lot a few blocks from the shelter. Gemma Seton, my mentor, had taken care of the fees for the first year. She’d helped me financially with everything and asked for nothing in return. That made me uncomfortable, but given the choices—having my food truck or not—I didn’t dwell on it. One day, I would repay her.

  “All right, Delores. Ready to go home for the night?” I patted the steering wheel lovingly.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  I squeaked, putting a hand over my heart. The face of a police officer appeared in my window. I rolled it down with the manual crank.

  “Hi, Officer.”

  “Are you aware you’re parked illegally?”

  Crud.

  I swallowed hard, shifting in my seat. “Umm, no.” In all the time I’d been here, I’d never parked illegally. Why today?

  “This is a no parking zone after six p.m.” He pulled out a ticket book and clicked open his pen.

  “No. Wait.” At the frantic tone of my voice, he paused. “I have a permit. Hang on a sec.” I held up a finger and bolted out of the driver’s seat to the box under the counter where I stored my important paperwork.

  With trembling hands, I rifled through it. Business license. Food vendor license. Health rating.

  “Here it is.” I tugged on the paper and lifted it where the officer could see before I straightened.

  I gave my parking permit to him through the window and bit my thumbnail as he inspected it. I braced my hands on the back of the seat, unsuccessfully trying to get a read on him. The man was stoic.

  He checked his watch and looked back at the paperwork. “Still have to ticket you, miss.”

  “What?”

  He tapped the permit. “This says you can park here until 6:15 p.m. It’s 6:22.”

  “Seven minutes? You’re giving me a ticket over seven minutes?” I threw my hands in the air, begging h
im with my eyes for some mercy. He simply stared back.

  I opened the door to the truck, and the officer jumped out of the way, narrowly avoiding being struck. His nostrils flared. I shrank back until I was against the metal side.

  “The law is the law,” he said through gritted teeth.

  His arms were so solid he could snap me in half in seconds. Darkness crept into the fringes of my vision. Not now. Not. Now.

  I shoved down my fear. “Please,” I whispered. “I won’t let it happen again.”

  “When I write you this ticket, I’m sure you won’t.”

  “I’m just getting my business off the ground. Every penny counts.” Cold brown eyes pierced me with zero sympathy. I forged on. “Come by every day. If I’m a minute late again, you can write me a ticket. Please, just . . . give me a break this once.”

  “And what if I let someone who litters go without a citation? Or a driver who runs a traffic light? Should I ignore all violations?” He scrawled in his ticket book. “License, registration, and insurance please,” he said without looking up.

  I touched his arm to stop him from writing. “Please.” My hand trembled, but I had to do something.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to refrain from touching me or I’ll be forced to detain you.”

  “You mean jail? I can’t go to jail.” Panic bubbled over. Now, the side of the truck was propping me up. What if Huxley found me there? I shook my head violently as terror gripped me.

  Blue. Green. Yellow.

  I tried to visualize the colors of my safe place, but blacks and grays kept interfering.

  “Everything okay here?” No. Blue. Green. Yellow. “Miss?” a man asked.

  At that, I turned to him, feeling . . . calm. Very odd.

  The man approaching was in a linen suit, his tie a baby blue that matched his eyes. His coppery hair flopped across his forehead haphazardly.

  “Fine,” the officer barked.

  I flinched. “He’s giving me a ticket because I’m seven minutes late leaving,” I said softly, keeping my eyes locked on the kind ones of the Good Samaritan.

  “Surely, Officer”—the man read the policeman’s name tag—“Officer Wilson, a warning will suffice. The lady meant no harm, did you?”

  “No.”

  Officer Wilson’s gaze was hard as he appraised my rescuer. “This doesn’t concern you, sir.”

  “The lady . . .” He paused, prompting me with a polite smile for my name.

  “Trish.”

  “Trish appears uncomfortable. Frightened, even. I’m not trying to interfere, but I can’t leave a scared woman on her own.”

  The officer blinked at me a few times as if realizing the other man was correct in his assessment. I tried to straighten my shoulders, but they remained rounded in defeat. Officer Wilson turned his head to the side and let out a soft curse.

  “Don’t park here past six fifteen.” He pressed the papers in my hand and stalked off.

  I sagged against the side of the truck. A comforting hand rested on my shoulder, though I stiffened at the contact. The man dropped it, concern etched on his face.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No.” The word came out scratchy. I cleared my throat. “Thank you.”

  The man’s smile broadened, revealing perfectly white teeth. “It was nothing. Glad you didn’t get a ticket.”

  “That’s the last thing I could afford right now.” I regretted my candor the second it was out of my mouth.

  His smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he extended his hand. “Andrew Dixon.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking his hand. “Do you go around rescuing people from citations?”

  “Sometimes,” he said mischievously.

  I tilted my head to the side. Something about Andrew made me feel comfortable. But the last person who had was Huxley, and that didn’t end well.

  “I should go.” I pointed my thumb over my shoulder. “Probably wouldn’t be a good thing to still be here if Officer Wilson comes back by.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Thanks again.”

  “Any time.”

  Neither of us moved for a moment. I should go, but I didn’t really want to. A settled feeling blanketed us, yet there was a buzz between us that was energizing.

  Coming to my senses, I gave him a shy smile before climbing in the truck and cranking the engine. I pulled away from the curb and glanced in the rearview mirror.

  Andrew Dixon was rooted in the spot, hands in his pockets, staring after me.

  I forced my eyes on the street ahead. What a weird day. Everything about it had been normal until the past ten minutes. How could three men elicit such different responses from me? You’re a work in progress, Trish. You found your calm. You did good.

  Well, at least I could be thankful of one thing: This was New York City. I’d never see any of those men again.

  Chapter Two

  Trish

  “Are you hungry, sweet girl?”

  I cradled my daughter to my chest. These were the moments I lived for. The food truck was a dream come true, but nothing compared to this. She was only eleven months, and I still hadn’t come to terms with the joy my baby brought me. I didn’t think I’d ever get used to it.

  I held the bottle to her lips, and she sucked greedily. Ella had my hair, but her dove gray eyes were unlike any I’d ever seen. Her nose was a tiny button that bore no resemblance to mine, though our lips had a similar bow. The circumstances under which she was conceived were evil, but I’d go through every second of that torture again if it meant having my baby girl.

  She gave me a reason to live. She gave me hope. Ella was all mine. No one could ever take her away from me.

  “Hey. How’d it go today?”

  I turned. My friend Baker stood in the doorway to the nursery. “Great. What about you?”

  Baker worked at a fashion magazine through the mentor program at Paths. She’d been at the shelter about a year when I arrived eleven months ago, and both of us had lived at Paths far longer than any of the other women. We had our reasons, and no one was pushing us out the door.

  “Crazy.” She crossed the room and tickled Ella’s tummy. “Did you know we can make our own lip gloss? One of the girls in the beauty department showed me how.”

  “Do you have it on?”

  She puckered her lips. “Like it?”

  “Love the color.”

  “Rose mica powder tints it.” Baker pulled out a little tin and dabbed her finger in the gloss, smearing some on my lips. “I’m going to show Mrs. Quinn. We can make all kinds of makeup.” She rocked on the balls of her feet.

  “This feels amazing.” I rubbed my lips together. “You should sell this stuff. Is it organic?”

  “Yes. I’m going to try powder next. I got the supplies on my way home.”

  “Let me grab a bite to eat, and we’ll come help you.” I held up Ella, and Baker kissed her forehead.

  “I haven’t had dinner yet, either.” Her stomach rumbled loudly. “I missed lunch too.”

  “You didn’t like the one I packed for you?”

  “I loved it. Just no time to eat today,” she reassured me. “Come on. Let’s see what Miss Nece left for us in the fridge.”

  * * *

  It was after ten when Baker and I parted ways for the evening. Turned out she had a knack for making her own facial powder. I ended up being the model, though I didn’t wear much makeup. I agreed to test it out with her for a few days before we talked to Mrs. Quinn about showing the ladies at the shelter how to make it.

  I snickered before I splashed my face with water. Baker dubbed us lab rats since we were experimenting with our own product. Everything was natural, so I figured it was fairly safe.

  A gentle tap sounded on my bedroom door. I glanced at Ella, who was sleeping soundly in her crib, before I moved to answer it.

  “Sorry it’s so late.” Mrs. Quinn’s gray hair was limp after a long day, the lines around her e
yes deeper than usual. “Did I wake Ella?”

  “No. No.” I stepped aside, allowing her into my room.

  “I only need a minute.” She pushed at her glasses before removing them. I tensed, afraid she had news about Huxley. “I was concerned after your text earlier.”

  I exhaled, the tension flowing out of my body. “It was nothing really. Just a last-minute customer who decided not to order anything when he saw me. He took off like there was a fire.”

  “You didn’t know him?”

  “I don’t think so.” I quirked my mouth to the side. “The whole thing was just odd.”

  “I checked on Huxley’s whereabouts. He’s still Upstate.”

  “That’s good.” I gave her a weak smile. “I’m sure it was nothing. I’m a little jumpy. That’s all.”

  Mrs. Quinn touched my shoulder. She took our well-beings upon herself as if she bore responsibility for all us. Taking care of the residents was personal for her. I was so thankful she’d given Ella and me a home.

  Today had spooked me, though.

  “You have every right to be. And there’s not a thing in the world wrong with being cautious.”

  “I don’t think he’s coming back. Not with the way he took off.”

  “As long as you’re okay.”