Hello, my darlings. I can’t believe it’s June already. Where has the year gone in such a hurry? I’m excited to share a snippet from Book 4 in the Craving 1985 Series released on June 27th! The last book will release in September 2023, so escape this summer by diving into the rest of the series.

Without further ado, allow me to introduce you to Claude and Gwen. Buckle up, darlings, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.

Welcome to 1985…

Claude Richards

I’m a pretty relaxed guy until someone crosses the line. When she walks in, wearing a Gucci gown covered in blood, my instincts kick in. I’ll protect her even though she’s nothing but trouble. A debutante slumming in the roughest neighborhood should be a red flag, but I can’t walk away and leave her to the wolves. Not when she smells like heaven and looks at me like I’m her knight in worn flannel.

Gwendolyn Monroe

To hell with it. When my fiance crosses the line, I give him exactly what he deserves. Now I’m lost and desperate without a friend in the world. The kindness of a one-armed bartender leaves me breathless and smitten. But he doesn’t want the daughter of a rich banker who sold his only child to the mafia. I’m not worth the hassle. My past will catch up with me, and he’s too pure for my world.

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Chapter One

Claude

Hell’s Kitchen NYC, December 1985

I’ve had my fill of violence. I’ve had more than my fill of conflict and death, more than most people know. It’s left a sour taste in my mouth. As a veteran of an unpopular war, I bear a daily reminder of the impact violence has had on my life, but I’ve learned to cope with it. Now I’m a pacifist, and I own a bar in Hell’s Kitchen. That suits me right down to the ground. I tried joining the police force when I came home, but I didn’t make the cut. I guess having lost my hand and the lower part of my arm put me at a disadvantage. Sacrifice always puts you at a disadvantage.

My brother is a homicide detective. A few months ago, he nearly died in the line of duty, which finally pushed me over the edge. I have no intention of putting myself in the midst of a horde of assholes with guns and itchy trigger fingers ever again. My life might not be perfect, but I’ve worked hard for it. I’m not about to throw it away playing the hero.

The door swings open on a gust of December wind, complete with copious amounts of snow. Such a storm is uncommon this early in the year, but it happens. The new arrival manages to close the door, then whips off the scarf around his head.

“Hey, Tom.” I reach for the vodka. He’s a regular who orders the same drink every night—a double shot of Russia’s finest in a chilled glass.

“Claude.” He sidles up to the bar, brushing off the remnants of the storm outside. “Looks like the weathermen were wrong…again.”

I feel a lopsided smile on my lips as I set the glass in front of him. “You sure you don’t want coffee? I can add some whiskey to spice it up.”

Tom crinkles his nose at the mention of the drink. Even though many of my patrons come from hardy Irish stock, there are a few who don’t have an ounce of Celtic heritage in their blood. Tom’s family came from Russia, and he served in the Navy during the Korean War. After my honorable discharge from the Army, I took over my grandfather’s pub, and when Tom stumbled in, our military bond made us fast friends despite a twenty-year age gap.

He taps the glass on the bar and lifts it in salute before downing the contents. Then he tells me about his day.

I soak it in.

This is my life. Service before self. Simple. Unfettered.

Lonely.

I have my faithful patrons and my family, but there’s an uneasy distance between life and me. Since the war, I’ve played it safe, venturing only far enough to ensure the bar is taken care of and my brother stays out of trouble.

But he’s not my responsibility anymore. He’s got Quinn. She’s good for him. They’re a match made in chaos. That doesn’t surprise me. Grant has always been a magnet for trouble, and Quinn personifies it.

I listen absently as Tom tells me about his adventure to the fish market across town. It’s the same every week, but I don’t mind indulging an old man his stories. It goes hand in hand with being a bartender. I watch, listen, and serve those who need a drink, an ear, or a smile.

A few more people arrive, coats and heads covered in white. Guess the storm must have picked up. They take a corner booth, and Sam scurries over to take their order.

He brings me the drink order before retreating to the small kitchen. We serve simple fare, burgers and fries, soups—hearty bar food to soak up the alcohol. No one comes here for the food.

The Black Penny is nothing fancy, but she’s mine. My grandfather opened the bar before World War II. When dad didn’t want to take over, Pap turned to me. I was a broken kid, fresh home from war. I didn’t know the first thing about running a business, but he took me under his wing and showed me the ropes. Even without a left hand, I managed to pick it up quickly. Gave me hope I could make something of myself.

When Pap passed, he left me not only the bar but the building. I don’t know where I’d be without him. His final request was twofold. Keep the bar in the family. Find a girl to make that happen.

It’s been ten years, and I haven’t been able to fulfill that promise. No one wants a warworn, one-armed bartender.

I can’t say I blame them.

Tom waves me over for a refill. “Hell of a storm out there. Don’t usually see these sorts until January.”

“That’s true.” I pour him another round.

The door bursts open. A dark figure stumbles in, snow curling in a tornado around them as they struggle to close the door. Once they succeed, they collapse against it.

A brick drops into my stomach when the new arrival turns toward me.

Wide blue eyes the color of summer skies peer out from beneath long, thick, dark hair tangled with snowflakes. An oversized winter coat encases her whole body, gaping just enough so the sequined fabric beneath could catch the light. She moves like a skittish cat, shying away from light, from people. Then she sees me, and relief fills her delicate features. She rushes to the bar. Tearstained streaks of mascara stream down her cheeks. She leans her trembling hands on the counter, and her gaze darts around the room, searching for an oncoming threat.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” I lean close and keep my voice low in an attempt to soothe her. I’m afraid one quick movement or loud noise will shatter her fragile composure.

Flecks of white cling to her lashes. They flutter as she looks up at me, her eyes bloodshot and rimmed with tear-smudged mascara. “Do…do you have a restroom?” Her voice is low, and I hear a tremor beneath the words.

Her expensive-looking wool coat is open at her throat, exposing the delicate curve of her neck and a fancy gown beneath. My gaze lingers on the white glittering fabric…stained red. Blood.

“Yes, in the back.” I point to the back of the bar. “Are you okay?” I keep my tone low and steady, but concern laces every word. “Are you bleeding?”

“I’m fine.” She clutches the lapels of her coat, pulling the garment closed. “If someone comes looking for me, I’m not here, okay?”

I nod, but before I can press further, she darts to the back of the bar and disappears down the hallway.

I should check on her, make sure she’s okay.

Tom pipes up from his nearby perch. “Poor kid looks like she’s running from something.”

“Yeah.” I rub my hand across my jaw and look toward the back of the bar. Judging from her clothes and demeanor, she’s not from around here. Probably an uptown girl caught in the wrong neighborhood. High-maintenance, with money burning a hole in her purse. A high-class broad looking for a good time. Not typical for this part of town. Strange.

As I wipe down the bar, the door flies open with another burst of cold air, swirling more snow into the room. Three men step through. The last one closes the door and stands against it, a guard blocking any possible escape. All three reek of power and corruption. Mafia.

The leader steps forward, his face half-covered with a bloodstained rag pressed to his nose. He pulls the cloth away and scans the bar with a sharp eye. The bridge of his nose is crooked, his fair skin bruised and smeared red. A trickle of blood runs down his lips. He wipes it away in irritation.

Perhaps it wasn’t her blood after all.

Her plea echoes in my mind. I’m not here.

Tom and I exchange a look before he returns his attention to the empty glass before him.

“Can I get you gentlemen a drink?” I lean against the bar to hide the nervous energy pulsing at the base of my skull, warning me nothing good can come from this. From them.

The battered leader steps up to the bar. Bloodstained and proud, he looks like a warrior from a bygone era, vengeance in his blue eyes. He wears an expensive, well-tailored suit, but red mars the white dress shirt. He presses the bloody handkerchief back to his bruised nose.

“Did a woman just come in here?” His gaze fixes on me.

“Nope.” I lift one shoulder, a halfhearted shrug, as I wipe down the counter.

The man’s eyes narrow as if searching me for the truth. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.” I gesture to the nearly empty bar. “Can I get you a drink?”

A sneer curls the rich asshole’s lip. He shoves away from the bar with a growl and motions to his men. “Look around.”

Without delay, the two men split up and quickly search the bar. They disappear toward the bathroom.

My heart ices over. There’s no way to warn her, to hide her. I maintain my calm and busy myself with small tasks behind the bar.

The bloody bastard swears, wiping more blood from his upper lip. His men reappear and shake their heads.

“She’s not here.”

“Fuck.” Irritation radiates from the single word. “Let’s go. The bitch can find her own way home. I’ll deal with her then.”

Without another word, the three men exit the bar, leaving a chill in their wake. I clench the rag in my fist and command my heart to stop racing.

“You think she went out the back?” Tom asks, his question quiet.