The Rake (Boston Belles #4)(121)
First and foremost, I would like to thank Tijuana Turner, my PA, alpha-reader, alpha-momager, and everything in-between. And to the women around us who support me unconditionally and with fierce, burning love: Ratula Roy, Vanessa Villegas, Yamina Kirky, Marta Bor, and Sarah Plocher.
To my graphic designer, Letitia Hasser, who always absolutely nails it, and to Stacey Blake, my formatter, who sprinkles magic dust on everything she touches—thank you.
To my editors: Cate Hogan, Mara White, Max Dobson, and Sarah Plocher. I couldn’t have done this without you (and I do mean all of you. It takes a village and a half).
To my agent, Kimberly Brower, for being much more than an agent. I hope you know how much appreciated you are.
I would like to thank the bloggers and the readers who supported this series and especially believed in me. You’re the best and I cannot imagine my life without you.
Finally, if you could spare a few seconds to leave a brief, honest review, I would appreciate it so much.
Take care and stay tuned. This is the end, but also a beginning of a brand-new series …
L.J. Shen, xoxo
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Sinners of Saint:
Defy (#0.1) Vicious (#1) Ruckus (#2) Scandalous (#3) Bane (#4)
All Saints High:
Pretty Reckless (#1) Broken Knight (#2) Angry God (#3)
Boston Belles:
The Hunter (#1) The Villain (#2) The Monster (#3) The Rake (#4)
Standalones:
Tyed
Sparrow
Blood to Dust
Midnight Blue
Dirty Headlines
In the Unlikely Event
The Kiss Thief
Playing with Fire
The Devil Wears Black
Bad Cruz
Punk Love
PREVIEW OF BAD CRUZ
Before you leave, make sure you read a sample of my brand-new romantic comedy, Bad Cruz:
The important thing to remember is that I, Tennessee Lilybeth Turner, did not try to kill anyone.
Look, I’m not saying I haven’t contemplated killing people in the past nor am I virtuous enough to declare that I would be terribly sad to learn if some people (fine, most people) in this town found their unfortunate, untimely demise.
But taking a person’s life?
Nuh-uh.
That’s something I am one-hundred percent incapable of doing.
Mentally, I mean.
Physically, I could totally take a bitch down if I put my mind to it. I’m in pretty good shape from working on my feet all day carrying twenty-pound trays full of greasy food.
Emotionally, I just couldn’t live with myself if I knew I’d made someone else’s heart stop beating.
And then there’s the going to jail part, which I’m not super hot on either. Not that I’m spoiled or anything, but I’m a picky eater, and I’ve never had a roommate. Why start now?
Plus, I sort of reached my sin quota for the past three decades. Killing someone at this point would be—excuse my pun—overkill. Like I’m hogging all of the bad press Fairhope, North Carolina, has allotted its citizens.
There Messy Nessy goes again. With her out-of-wedlock baby, throat-punching tendencies, and spontaneous murders.
(I shall explain the throat-punching incident in due time. Context is crucial for that story.)
So, now that it is established that I definitely, certainly, unquestionably did not try to kill anyone, there is one thing I should make clear:
Gabriella Holland deserved to die.
There was a ninety-nine point nine percent chance I was going to kill someone in this diner this sunny, unassuming afternoon.
The teenager with the yellow Drew hoodie, colorful braces, and stoned expression deliberately dropped his fork under the table of the red vinyl booth he occupied.
“Oops,” he drawled wryly. “Clumsy me. Are you gonna pick that up or what?”
He flashed me a grin full of metal and waffle chunks. His three friends cackled in the background, elbowing each other with meaningful winks.
I stared at him blankly, wondering if I wanted to poison or strangle him. Poison, I decided, was better. Might be a coward’s way to kill, but at least I wouldn’t have to risk a broken nail.
My gelled, pointy, Cardi-B-style nail art was precious to me.
His neck, decidedly, was not.
“Don’t you have hands?” I popped my pink gum in his face, batting my fake eyelashes, playing the part this town gave me—the airheaded bimbo with the big blond hair who was barely literate and destined to serve them burgers for eternity.
“I do, and I’d love to show you what they’re capable of.”
His friends howled, some of them rolling into a coughing fit, clapping and enjoying the show. I felt Jerry, my boss, glaring at me from across the counter while wiping it furiously with a dishcloth approximately the same age as me.
His gaze told me not to “accidentally” spit my gum into their fountain soda (Tim Trapp had it coming; he’d insinuated I should become a hooker to put my son through college). Apparently, we couldn’t afford the legal fees nor the problematic reputation.
Jerry was the owner of Jerry & Sons. The only problem with this wonderful name was that there were no sons.