Tainted Black Read online

  A Forbidden Romance

  By

  Copyright © 2015 Shanora Williams

  All rights reserved. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any form without prior written permission of the publisher, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution, circulation or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

  Published September 2015

  Editing by Yours Truly, The Editor

  Cover Art and Design by Cover Lust Designs

  Formatting by Inkstain Interior Book Designing

  Trademarks: This book identifies product names and services known to be trademarks, registered trademarks, or service marks of their respective holders. The author acknowledges the trademarked status in this work of fiction. The publication and use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  I would like to personally take the time out to enlighten every reader about a few details in Tainted Black. Since this story happens to have quite a unique premise, I’d just like to inform all of you that, though it may seem odd and wrong, it is purely fiction.

  The cities/towns in which this novel is set are completely fictional and withhold no resemblances to an actual city/town, the people, cultures, or laws.

  No, these are not events that have happened in my life or to anyone that I know. This just so happens to be a storyline that has been running wild in my mind ever since 2013 and I’m just now putting it out there.

  I have worked on it, and then stopped. I have spent endless hours making it the best it can be, but wondering if people would get it. I have wanted to give up on this novel and the characters because I feared many would truly misunderstand Chloe and Theo’s struggle. In our society, most would consider it distasteful and ignorant.

  I don’t. This story is from my heart, I can guarantee it. This story is full of love, angst, and even some heartbreak. This story shows growth and maturity. This story, as one reader put it, is about life vs. love.

  I hope people realize a certain pattern when it comes to my writing style. I write very realistically considering I’ve had a very realistic childhood and life. I don’t see everything through color. Most of my life was spent looking through black and white binoculars.

  Trust me when I say that I am a firm believer in HEA’s, but please realize that not all stories will have that rainbows and unicorn mirage. Every single one of my stories has an HEA in itself. It all just depends on your personality, how you grew up, or how you accept it.

  If you can grasp these detailed facts, then I encourage you to read Tainted Black and I really hope you enjoy it! But if you cannot get with age gap/differences, the lust, or if you are expecting a fairytale type of romance, then realize this may not be the story for you. I completely respect your decision if you are no longer interested in reading it.

  Much love and BIG hugs,

  Shanora

  xoxo

  CONTACT SHANORA

  I love chatting with my readers. If there’s anything you’d like to talk to me about please feel free to email me at [email protected]

  Also, FOLLOW me on these social networks to keep up with what I’m working on next, cool info on my characters, and even awesome graphics!

  Instagram: @reallyshanora

  Twitter: twitter.com/shanorawilliams

  Facebook: Facebook - Shanora's Sweethearts

  Website: www.authorshanorawilliams.com

  Dedicated to the people that will sacrifice pretty much anything for the ones they love. You may feel like you aren’t recognized, but you are special. You are loved and you are appreciated. Your soul is precious and generous, and this world could always use more people like you.

  “Don’t think.

  It complicates things.

  Just feel, and if it feels like home, then follow its path.”

  - r. m. drake -

  ONE

  I was twelve years old when I met the Blacks.

  I’d just moved to Primrose Way, a suburban neighborhood in Bristle Wave County, California. Bristle Wave was right off the coast, a small, comforting area that travelers ventured to whenever they wanted to hit the pier, walk the beach, or even rent a boat to take out to sea.

  My dad had gone into early retirement, so money was far from an issue when it came to staying in our new, high-dollar neighborhood. I’d heard plenty of horror stories about Primrose. Kids from school said people like me, girls with any trace of color, didn’t fit in well. I considered it bullshit gossip. I mean, how would they know if they had never lived in Primrose? And how would they know if they had no pigment in their skin? My father, the man of color, was the one that chose the neighborhood. He didn’t care for the snobby looks or turned up noses.

  “As long as you’re in a neighborhood like Primrose, you’ll be fine.” He said this when I complained about moving for the third time that year. Truthfully, all of the moving around was most likely the reason I had no one to personally call my friend. I was a loner, stuck in my house wondering how to go up to the other kids on the block and ask them if they’d like to jump rope with me.

  Let’s just say my father was wrong. The girls in Primrose didn’t like me. They were afraid to play with me, and none of them believed I was actually twelve years old because I was one bra size away from being a B-cup.

  My mother tried arranging sleepovers, but no one would show up, which left me alone, drowning in a puddle of tears with my face down on a pillow as my mother rubbed my back. Dad didn’t really know how to comfort me, so whenever I cried, he kept his distance.

  He’d worked most of my childhood, but now that he was retired, he had no clue how to handle me—not that he didn’t try or anything. He just knew how to make things really, really awkward. Mom worked endless hours as well but, unlike Dad, she hardly managed to spend two hours a day with me. Maybe an hour or so if I was lucky or if I decided to shop with her. I suppose I could have considered myself lucky because some of my friends at Bradshaw Heights Academy only saw their parents once a month. Having busy parents sucked.

  Bristle Wave was boring for the most part. My daily routine was to ride my bike through the neighborhood park, come back home and read a book, and then wake up for school. During summer, it was worse.

  My parents were hardly ever home—Dad most likely working or playing golf and Mom running her new art studio—so I stayed in the house reading young adult novels by Judy Blume and J.K. Rowling. I thought surely I’d be trapped in Primrose with no friends, no life, and no entertainment until I was off to college—that is, until the day the Blacks moved in.

  They happened to move right into the home across the street from me. Mr. Clark lived there only months ago but was sent to a retirement home after falling down the stairs and breaking his hip.

  The rumble of a motorcycle caught my ear, and I climbed off my bed, forgetting about the needless algebra homework as I stole a peek out the window. A moving truck parked along the curb, and a black Tahoe pulled into the driveway, parking in front of the garage door.

  A woman and a girl climbed out of the Tahoe, the woman fanning the humidity away. The girl looked to be around my age, her nose stuck in a book, hooked on whatever story she was devouring. Ahh, I thought. She likes to read, just like me. Check one.

  They entered the house, and a few m
oments later, the woman came back out, telling the movers where to carry the items as she pointed towards the ash-brick house, shading her eyes with the other hand above her brow.

  The men carried a large, brown sofa across the lawn, a few carrying small things like dining and patio chairs and even a small red recliner that the woman made sure was handled properly.

  Everyone seemed to be busy—everyone except the man sitting on the loud motorcycle he rode in on. It was rare hearing the growl of a motorcycle in Primrose. Everyone in the neighborhood drove classy cars—Mercedes, BMWs, and fancy Infiniti or Cadillac SUVs. I knew Mrs. Rhodes, their next-door neighbor, wouldn’t be too pleased about that. She hated loud noises, yet she had a small Yorkie that yapped all day long until she came home.

  The man sat on his motorcycle, wiping off his helmet with a brown cloth. He wore a fitted black T-shirt and dark wash jeans. His hair was a dark, beautiful, chaotic mess, a few tendrils hanging on his forehead, most likely from taking his helmet off. The haircut suited him. Long in the front, short on the sides and in the back, parted on one side to uphold a classic yet modern appeal.

  It was never like me to take full notice of anyone, but there was just something about this man that had me curious. He didn’t seem to match the woman I assumed was his wife. She ran around like a chicken with her head cut off, telling the movers right from wrong. He seemed too laid back for her, but by the way he looked at her—watched as she swished her hips to get to the door in her snazzy high heels, I could tell he loved her.

  Completely.

  Utterly.

  From this angle, he looked tall, with a chiseled face, high cheekbones, and a bone-straight smile that he revealed when his wife walked out the door. She sighed as she walked towards him and stepped between his legs, wrapping her arms around his neck. She held him close, sighed some more as she gazed into his eyes, and I could understand why. That man was absolutely breathtaking. From head to toe, he was perfection.

  I continued watching the little family, curious as to where the girl went. I assumed she was in her unfurnished bedroom, nose still buried deep in her novel. I instantly wanted to meet her. I wanted to know what she was reading. I hoped it was Judy Blume.

  Collecting my house key and sliding into my favorite pair of Sperry’s, I hurried down the stairs where my mother stood in the foyer, chatting on her cellphone while she peered out of the window. I wasn’t the only one being nosey.

  When she heard me coming down, she turned and asked, “Where are you going, sweetie?”

  “I’m going to meet the new neighbors.”

  “Oh. Tell me how they are,” she whisper-hissed as I swung the door open. I nodded and shut it behind me, standing on the porch. The family was no longer in sight. The movers were bringing in some more of their larger belongings.

  I was being impatient. I wanted to meet the girl across the street first before any of the other prissy girls in Primrose got to her. Not that I needed a friend, but I wanted one. I wanted someone that had similar interests and reading was a huge one for me. So, I walked across the street, up their driveway, and courageously knocked on the front door.

  It opened right away, and to my surprise, it was the man from the motorcycle and the girl’s father, I presumed. “Well,” he said, slowly revealing a full smile. “Who do we have here?”

  “Uh… hey.” My cheeks turned rosy red, my chest going hot. I wasn’t expecting him to answer the door. “I—I wanted to introduce myself. I’m Chloe Knight. I live right across the street”—I looked back and pointed to my house—“and I was wondering if I could meet the girl that went inside?”

  The man raised a brow. “The girl? You mean my little Isabelle?”

  “That’s her name?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” One of the movers walked past him and me. The man looked down, gesturing back. “Come inside. I’ll go get her.”

  My throat became thick, so I didn’t say anything. I just bobbed my head and followed the man inside. The house felt full and they hadn’t even set up yet. Boxes were stacked in every corner, furniture piled high in the den and living room.

  “Sorry about the mess,” he teased, raising his brows. “Just moved in and all.” He held his hands out, giving me a shit happens kind of shrug. I forced a smile, unsure of how to respond, and he noticed, stopping in his tracks before walking up the stairs. “I guess I should have told you who we are, huh?” He scratched the top of his head. “I’m Theo Black. My wife’s name is Janet, and I’ve already told you my daughter’s.”

  “Cool.”

  He pressed his lips to smile, and after informing me that he’d tell Isabelle I was downstairs, he was taking the steps by twos, calling for his daughter. I took the time to look around the home. A few tables were in place, and next to one of them was an open box of photo albums.

  Glancing back briefly before focusing on it again, I reached forward and opened the album. The first few photos were of Mr. and Mrs. Black, but as I flipped through some more, there were baby photos of the girl. She wore a lot of pink and yellow. She had rosy, chubby cheeks. She looked like a happy baby.

  I noticed then that Mr. and Mrs. Black were very young when they had Isabelle. They looked to be in their late teens, early twenties. It was strange because they seemed so happy and content. While her parents seemed hip, cool, and lively, mine were nearing fifty, bitter towards each other, and mostly miserable. Hell, they hardly spoke to one another. And don’t get me started on our awkward, scheduled dinners.

  My parents decided to have a child once they’d established careers and traveled the world. By the time they were ready to settle, they were thirty-six. It was a decent age but, unfortunately, Mom was considered high-risk when she carried me. I figured it was the reason she never had more children.

  For a while, I thought that was the key to happiness—living your life first with the one you love and then creating a tiny being that you will love unconditionally for the rest of your life. Apparently, I had the wrong mindset because as I studied the Black’s pictures, I realized I didn’t even have any of my own to compare them to. If I did, I had no clue where they were other than the few small frames on top of the fireplace and beside the sofa. All for show, of course. But through all their photos, they seemed genuinely happy.

  “She’ll be down in a minute.” Mr. Black’s deep voice startled me, and I snatched my hands away from the photo album, cheeks tinged red. “Sorry,” I whispered quickly.

  “Don’t be.” He walked around me, picking up the photo album I’d violated. Flipping past a few pages, he finally came across one and laughed. “This is Izzy when she was two. Completely naked, playing with her toes.” He showed me the picture, leaning towards me. His arms brushed mine. I don’t think he noticed or cared, but I did. How couldn’t I? It was almost like I’d been shocked—it was electrifying.

  I stepped aside, smiling with him. “She was adorable.”

  “Still is,” he sighed.

  Footsteps sounded seconds later, and the girl came rushing down. When she reached us, she put on a large grin, flashing pink braces. “You wanted to meet me!?” she practically shrieked.

  “I—uh, yeah! I wanted to say hi and introduce myself to the new neighbors.”

  “That’s so cool.” She extended her arm, holding her hand out. I did the same. “Isabelle Black, but you can call me Izzy.”

  “Chloe Knight.” I beamed.

  “So nice to meet you.”

  “You too.” We shook hands, and instantly, I freaking loved Isabelle. “Hey, were you reading a Judy Blume book earlier?”

  She let out a girly gasp. “Oh my gosh! Yes! I love her!”

  “I do too!” I squealed. “I can spot that blue cover from anywhere!”

  “No freakin’ way!”

  “Your mom is gonna flip shit if she hears you talking like that,” Mr. Black said, putting the album on the table.

  Isabelle put her hand on her hip. “I wonder where I get it from.”

  He chuckled, and
I laughed because he used a bad word right in front of us.

  “Hey, how about I show you the rest of my books. I have almost all of Judy Blume!”

  “Okay!” Isabelle grabbed my hand and led the way up the stairs, passing by her mother who was telling two of the movers how to set up the bed in the master bedroom.

  “Oh!” Mrs. Black’s eyes expanded when she realized there were two girls instead of one. “Who’s this?” she asked, green eyes bright.

  “Mom, this is Chloe. She lives across the street. I’m showing her my Judy Blume collection.”

  “Oh really? A new friend already! See, I told you this neighborhood wouldn’t be so bad.” Mrs. Black smiled, revealing dimples. She was a really pretty woman. Strawberry blonde hair, full pink lips, and a body I hoped I would get once I finally blossomed. She didn’t even look like she’d had a child. It seemed she was still considering having babies.

  “Hi,” I said, waving.

  “Hello gorgeous girl.” She reached for one of my curls. “Your hair is beautiful. Did you do it?”

  “I did!”

  “You did a great job, sweetie. Maybe you can teach Izzy how to style her hair, huh?”

  I shrugged, looking at Isabelle’s frizzy, black mane. “Hmm, maybe.”

  Isabelle rolled her eyes. “Can we go now, Mom?”

  “Go on. But please be careful, Izzy. You have a lot of fragile stuff in your boxes.”

  “I know, I know.” She reached for my hand again. “Come on!” We ran down the hallway, stepping into a room with a bunk bed. The walls were already painted a light shade of pink, the fuzzy white rug on the ground making the color pop.

  Isabelle showed me her collection of books. A large box was filled to the brim, piled high with novels, and not just Judy Blume. That day, Isabelle became my best friend, and I didn’t even realize it. We connected and bonded, laughed and talked about books and Disney movies until the sun sank.