Jolie Blonde (Vigilare Book 3)
Jolie Blonde
The
Vigilare
Prequel
Brooklyn James
www.facebook.com/BrooklynJamesAuthor
Copyright © 2014 by Brooklyn James
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Edited by Cynthia Gage
Cover design © Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations
Ebook design and layout by L.K. Campbell
Published by Arena Books, Austin, Texas
First Edition—March 2014
ISBN 9781500852221
NO PART OF THIS BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM, BY PHOTOCOPYING OR BY ANY ELECTRONIC OR MECHANICAL MEANS, INCLUDING INFORMATION STORAGE OR RETRIEVAL SYSTEMS WITHOUT PERMISSION IN WRITING FROM THE COPYRIGHT OWNER/AUTHOR.
The Vigilare Series
is best read in the following order:
Vigilare
Vigilare: Hell Hound
Jolie Blonde (Prequel)
Vigilare: The Phoenix
Chapter 3: Most Definitely Not Okay
Chapter 7: All-American Boy, All-American Rebel
Chapter 8: *Pretty Little Rolling Stone*
Chapter 18: *Damsel In Distress*
Chapter 24: Wolf In Sheep’s Clothing
Chapter 27: A Divine Assignment
Chapter 28: Suits Me Just Fine
Chapter 29: What A Wonderful World
*Chapter title* is a featured song on the album
Jolie Blonde —
Listen free at
www.brooklyn-james.com
Along a lesser known tributary of the Mississippi River east of New Orleans, seventeen-year-old Brianna Bentley and her classmate, Lon Castille, paddleboard upriver. Barefoot in a red sundress, her long blonde hair glistening in the sun, Brianna shows off her agility, balancing on one leg in the center of her board.
Lon, in board shorts, his t-shirt tucked in his back pocket, purposely and speedily whizzes by her. His diligent paddle causing the calm water to ripple, the current teeter-totters Brianna’s board. She smiles, willfully riding out the waves, remaining launched upon one foot.
“Show off,” Lon huffs.
Sitting down on his board, he pulls his water bottle from his backpack. Unfortunately his thirst is left unquenched as he tips the empty container upside down. The start of an excruciatingly hot Louisiana summer, the unforgiving sun beats down over his athletic frame.
“Years of dance training finally paying off,” Brianna explains her balancing feat. Coming to rest on her board, her legs fold one into the other. She extends her paddle to Lon. He pulls on the end of it until her board sits beside his. “Here,” she offers up the plastic straw hanging over her shoulder equipped to her hydration recovery backpack. Lon looks at the contraption quizzically. “Bite, then suck,” she instructs.
He does so with angst, dutifully serving his dry palate. “Fancy,” he comments with a wry flex of his eyebrows.
“My dad brought it back from one of his conventions.” She takes a swig before letting the straw fall against her shoulder.
“What is it he does again?” Lon scoops some water from the creek, splashing it through his thick, dark crew-cut hair. The water runs down his face collecting at the tips of his eyelashes, accentuating his steel blues.
“He’s an Astrobiologist,” Brianna takes her time pronouncing the term, attempting to get it right. Coifing her tresses about the back of her neck, she cinches a ponytail holder around them, relieving the heat the thick locks are responsible for generating.
Lon reaches out, tucking a runaway blonde strand behind her ear. “Okay. So what does an
Astrobiologist
do?”
“He studies evolution…life, space…the universe,” she answers, skirting around the issue.
“Extraterrestrials? Aliens?” He further gouges, well aware of her father’s controversial published research.
“Yeah.” Brianna chuckles, ducking her slightly embarrassed face to her chest.
“You believe in all of that?”
She shrugs, looking up at him, her emerald green eyes specked with gold, reflecting the sun. “Why so many questions?”
“Just trying to figure out why the man hates me, that’s all.” Lon leans back, the action causing his well-defined abdomen to contract holding his frame upright, momentarily drawing Brianna’s adoring eyes. “I mean, I get it. You’re rich, I’m poor. He wants the best for you.”
She smiles. “Your socioeconomic status has nothing to do with it. You’re a boy. I’m a girl. My father’s
only
girl. At this point, he hates
every
boy. Don’t take it personally.” She flicks water from her fingers, her target his delightfully distracting torso.
He returns her smirk, brushing his hands through the water, lofting it up around her legs, ensuing an all-out battle. They retreat and attack, water splashing about, their laughter filling the emptiness of the creek.
“Okay! Okay,” Brianna squeals. “Truce?”
Lon nods, withdrawing. His wide smile replaced with sweet sentiment looking across from him at the
jolie blonde
in the alluring red sundress. He leans in to her, his hand tucked behind her ear, awaiting permission. She gives him his cue. Millimeters before his lips reach hers, Brianna pushes against him, catapulting him backward from his board and into the water.
Splash!
She scurries from her seated position, one arm clenched to her abdomen, her voracious laughter drawing it there. Quickly employing her paddle, she pushes upstream, her neck swiveling cautiously to keep an eye on her pursuer.
Lon erupts out of the water, his arms latching onto his board as he pulls himself astraddle of it. Miming man’s best friend, he shakes his head vigorously, slinging water from his hair and face. “Now, you’re gonna get it,” he playfully threatens.
“I hope so!” Brianna mutters under her breath, taking him in, sitting there on his paddleboard—wet-headed, his frame flexed, a hunky grin spread from ear to ear. In the setting sun, he is an image straight off the cover of one of her heartthrob magazines.
He catapults, much like a surfer, until he stands upright and sound, his feet digging fast to the rubber deck pad stabilizing his balance. He remains calm and cocky without an ounce of urgency.
“What are you waiting for?” she yells, still paddling ferociously, the anticipation imminent in her smile.
“Giving you a handicap,” Lon crows while wringing out his soaked t-shirt, then splaying it about his neck, hoping for some cool relief.
Brianna laughs, her paddle digging through the water as she veers off the beaten path. “Go ahead. Defeat yourself.”
“Where are you going?” He engages his paddle, taking off after her.
“The road less traveled.”
“Sun’s setting. Don’t you think we should head back?” he calls, warily.
“What’s the matter? Chicken?” She flaps her arms. “Balk…balk…baaaallll…”
Lon laughs, trailing her in hot pursuit. “Cackle away, hen. There’s only room for one rooster in this henhouse.” He tips his head back, releasing a macho “Cock-a-doodle-dooooo!” His voice reverberates as they venture off onto a narrow, heavily tree-laden path. “Your father is really going to hate me now,” he mutters to himself, knowing their detour will keep him from delivering her home in time to make curfew.
One half hour upstream and several playfully challenging verbal battles later, Lon has finally caught up with his fatiguing prey.
“Balk…balk…baalll,” Brianna tiredly expels through giggles, her once triumphant call now diminished and weak.
He disengages his paddle as he closes the gap. Nimbly climbing onto her board, he settles in behind her. His arms encircling her waist, his chin comes to rest on her shoulder. “Cock-a-doodle-dooo,” he crows quietly, victorious.
She chuckles, welcoming his warm supportive frame.
“We have a good time, don’t we?” he whispers sweetly.
Brianna nods, her eyes fixed on the setting sun, its golden hue disappearing behind the towering pines. “How in the world are we going to make it back?” A reprimanding giggle escapes at the thought of her overzealous
bright
idea.
“I gotcha,” Lon quiets her apprehension, tying his board off to hers. He returns to her, his arms enveloping her waist, gripping her paddle. Digging into the water, he propels the tail of their board in the opposite direction, turning downstream.
“What’s that?” she questions, pointing to a white silhouette beneath the shallow water.
“Probably a turtle,” he dismisses.
“Since when were turtles white?” she quizzes. “It looks like a skull.”
Lon keeps paddling, writing off her inquiry. “Probably is. A
gator
skull,” he whispers spookily, snapping his teeth lightly about her ear.
“No. Really. Turn back around,” Brianna coaxes, her neck swiveling, searching in the trajectory of the ghostly object.
“Brie,” he uses her moniker, “I have to get you home.” He maintains his diligent paddling in the opposite direction. “Your father’s probably contemplating an APB already.”
She ducks from beneath his embrace, diving off into the water, refusing to let her curiosity lie.
“Dammit, Brie,” he huffs, navigating the board back in the other direction. He keeps his eyes on her beneath the water, her vibrant red sundress easy to track.
“Got it!” She pants, resurfacing atop the water, the skull in her hand, her lungs hungrily accepting the gift of oxygen. Swimming toward him, she lobs the skull and herself upon the paddleboard.
Lon kneels across from her, inspecting her find. The skull is human in its form, with the exception of the overly pronounced cone and eye sockets.
“What is it?” Brianna looks up at him, wonderment in her eyes.
“It’s a skull, Brie,” he answers flatly.
Rolling her eyes, she quips, “Thanks genius.” Her smile quickly fading, she returns her attention to the odd-looking cranium. “What kind of skull?” Her fingers trace its borders, noticing the slicked off surface, surely buffed by the wild inhabitants of the river.
“Maybe it’s ET,” he jokes, playing into her grand imagination.
“Ouch!” She pulls her hand away, a trickle of blood running down her palm.
Lon grabs her hand, wrapping his t-shirt around it, wiping at the viscous substance. “Quit touching it. You don’t know what that thing might have on it,” he scolds.
