A Diamond in the Rough Read online

  A Diamond in the Rough

  by

  Elisa Marie Hopkins

  A Diamond in the Rough

  By Elisa Marie Hopkins

  Published by Stellar Jay Publications

  Copyright © 2013 by Elisa Marie Hopkins

  Cover design by Omar Ramirez

  For more about this author please visit http://elisamariehopkins.com/

  All characters and events in this book, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, then please purchase an additional copy.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-63415-642-4

  Main category—[Romance]

  Other category—[Suspense]

  First Edition

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Sneak Peek at Black Diamond

  Acknowledgments

  About the author

  Tell the author what you think

  Everyone is on a quest. Everyone is searching for something. This book is for you. Keep on walking. Keep on fighting.

  “The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.”

  — Martin Luther King, Jr.

  (American Baptist Minister and Civil-Rights Leader 1929-1968)

  ONE

  THE DAY BEGINS like any other; only this day, I wake up wishing it were already over.

  Sitting bleary-eyed and comatose, I watch as the knife and fork mark the passing of time on the kitchen clock. The spoon pendulum swings sideways, tick and tock, back and forth, slow and gradual. It’s a little before sunrise. The sky is leaking a gush of rain so fatal I can’t tell if the din is coming from the rain’s friction with the air as it falls or its collision with each surface, or both. The streets are already dotted by umbrellas—people swerving in and out among each other, getting into cabs, shopping the coffee stores, gabbing on their hi-tech cell phones...all before the sun has crept up behind the imperious buildings of Manhattan, before I’ve even finished eating a bowl of Cheerios. These people are relentlessly compelled by the need to accomplish their goals.

  What am I doing? I ask myself all the time.

  “Item not sold,” reads the online auction listing for a “pre-owned Valentino evening dress.” A question mark hovers over my financial future. The image of only two eggs in the refrigerator and bills stacked precariously like a house of cards pops up in my mind’s eye. I stare at my laptop screen, push my golden hair back as I wonder about my life, and sigh. I look left. I look right. I look up; then I look down. Idle fingers poised over the keyboard, I’m begging my brain to please come up with an idea.

  I hit the delete key for the item description and instead type “one of a kind runway Valentino dress.”

  About to dump a spoonful of cereal into my mouth, I discover a weevil-like black pest bathing in the milk and a second one lazing on a Cheerio. I nearly choke. The sun is barely out and already there are all sorts of hints that the day will be a litany of nuisances. And that’s when an icon flashes on the screen, alerting me to a social media notification. I hunch over the table, forgetting all ideas of proper posture, and click on the link that takes me to a tweet that’s been posted.

  Enjoy your days. They are numbered.

  I jerk up straight, my eyes fluttering open. I move my face closer to the laptop screen and scan the words meticulously as though I read wrong. I read it again, twice, thrice, and by the fourth time reality sinks in. Another threat.

  A pigeon startles me as it swoops into view, roosting on the exterior windowsill. The pigeon starts tapping its tiny beak at the window, cooing at me, weakly fluttering its wings. Gobs of feathers fall from its body, exposing fresh wounds.

  It looks hungry and sick. I go to the window, stretch out my hand, and scatter crumbs of Cheerios at its feet. The pigeon stares at me with its buggy eyes, then walks a bit closer, partly injured, partly frightened, testing if I pose a threat. Before the sick-looking pigeon has any chance to muster some courage, a healthy, more gallant pigeon with its chest puffed out whooshes in and fiercely digs its beak into the feeble bird.

  It takes me far too long to react.

  “Hey!” I pound at the window. “Stop it!” The snooty pigeon looks like it doesn’t have to be anywhere and people don’t impress it, much less scare it. It takes its time to peck at each and every last crumb.

  “Sophie.”

  I watch the pigeon take to the air a tyrant and a conqueror, the anemic pigeon having departed first.

  “Sophie.”

  “What?” I grumble, turning around. I look beyond the little nook of a kitchenette to the living room where Jess, my roommate, is all dolled up in a bright yellow cable-knit sweater, navy pants, and matching pumps. Her hair, dark brown and styled in loose waves, plays around her lanky shoulders. I wonder what time she woke up.

  “What are you doing in here?” A girlish grin spreads across her rosy cheeks. “I heard a loud noise.” I watch her graceful steps as she walks into the kitchen.

  “Nothing.” I close my laptop, dump the bowl of cereal in the sink, and rub a sponge along the inside.

  “Nothing?”

  I sigh, finding it difficult to construct my sentences. Dishes clink and clank against each other. “It was just a stupid bird.”

  “A bird?”

  “Yes.” I turn off the faucet. “A pigeon.”

  “A pigeon?”

  I wipe my hands dry with a towel. “Are you going to keep repeating everything I say?”

  She takes the last two eggs from the chicken-shaped basket and warily straps on latex gloves. “Well, you’re not making any sense. Not that you ever do. It looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed today.”

  “Or maybe just the regular side of the bed.”

  After she washes each egg in the sink—she read somewhere that eggshells are exposed to salmonella—she cracks them on the edge of the pan, lets them sit for a second while disposing of the shells in the waste bin, then begins stirring them with a whisk.

  “I’m glad to see your sense of humor is intact, Sophie. Really, I am. But you’re always being way too hard on yourself. It’s a new day. You’re alive. Be happy.”

  I stare at her for a second or two, my face a mask of cynicism
. “Happy doesn’t work for some people. I happen to be one of them.”

  “Not making sense again,” she says in a mock-cheerful lilt.

  I look inside the refrigerator, grab a pudding cup, and pop the lid off.

  “All right. Let’s pretend I’m so incredibly happy my brain is thinking about rainbows and butterflies and I’m waving good morning to the mailman. I let my guard down. Next thing I know, something takes a dark turn. But I don’t even realize it because I’m over here staring at a bright patch of happy light. All of a sudden, I’ve fallen into a hole and have no rope, no ladder, and the walls are too slippery to climb out of. Happiness makes me lose focus. It makes me weak. I can’t stand it. Does that make sense to you now?”

  Jess looks like I’ve just told her Santa isn’t real. “That makes no sense to me.”

  “Predators prey on people with weaknesses. Notice, I’m not dead.”

  “That argument is weak,” she counters. “Happiness does not equate to weakness. No one wants to be miserable or unhappy, Sophie, and misery is a choice you get to make.”

  I shovel a spoon into the pudding cup, then my mouth. “Well, that does it. I am a miserable person who also happens to have a self-belittling sense of humor.” I let out a huge breath and sit on a stool at the breakfast bar; there’s a twitching of my eyelids and my head wants to fall forward.

  “You’re miserable because you’re scared,” she says.

  “Scared of what?”

  “For starters, don’t you have that big show today? That’s something pretty terrifying, if you ask me.”

  I blink. Hilarity almost escapes, but I push it back. “I can assure you the fears I struggle with are deeper. But, now that you bring up my fabulous line of work, let me just say the thought of it alone makes me want to rip my eyes out and feed them to the crows.”

  Jess stares at me bewildered while I keep eating my pudding in complete silence. “I can imagine. It’s a tough business. Huge competition all the way. Lots of demands. Massive pressure. Trust me, I get it.”

  “No, I don’t think you do.”

  “I know I’m not in your position and I’m not you, but I promise you can talk to me and I’ll try to understand.”

  “It’s six thirty in the morning. I don’t have anything exciting to say other than I have to take a shower.”

  She smiles, rolling her eyes, and gets a plate from the impeccably tidy stack inside the cupboards. Like clockwork, her eyebrows start to furrow and her lips twitch as she inspects every stray blotch on that plate.

  “Jess,” I say her name carefully, as if she’s a kid whose full attention I need, “you know the meth addict next door, Huang? He got arrested again last night. Honestly, I don’t know what the cops are doing anymore.”

  She sighs. “Nice try to distract me. There are water spots on this plate. This wasn’t my doing.”

  “I mean, what do the police expect is going to happen here? What is their plan? Are they going to cut him loose again?”

  “Sophie!” she pouts. “You know I can’t have water spots on plates. I’ve told you before, don’t leave the plates on the drying rack. Dry them with a clean dish towel.”

  When dealing with matters of, or related to, filth or germs, Jess isn’t easily distracted. She becomes hinged to the matter itself. “I’m sorry. Take it easy,” I say. “I’m sure that whatever spot you see is not going to threaten your health.”

  “Do you even hear yourself?” She sinks the plate under running dishwater and gets another one from the stack. “Because if that’s the way you think the ball bounces around here, then you’re in for a real surprise when, ten years down the road, your body is so plagued with dirt, and germs, and dust, and other disgusting pathogens, that it can no longer repair itself!”

  I sigh the sigh of one who has survived destruction. “Jessica, you’re alive. Be happy. I’ll clean, disinfect, and dry the dishes.”

  “Thank you.” She settles herself down. “Anyway, you remember about stopping by my class one of these days? You know, for career week? It’s going to be so great to have you as a speaker.”

  I lean against the stool’s back cushion, digging through the remnants in the pudding cup. “I’m not good with kids. Why do you want me to go?”

  Tilting the pan, she slides the eggs onto a dish she has deemed clean and sits on a stool next to me. “Let me tell you about some gifted people who were the highlight of last year’s career week. Mr. Sanchez, a computer systems analyst. Poor guy looked like he hadn’t showered in days. And he smelled funny. Then there was Mr. Knipple. That’s right, Knipple, with a silent K. He’s a pastor for Pete’s sake! There has to be some sort of sin involved in saying Pastor Knipple! The kids kept saying his name just so they could get a good laugh. Oh, and last but not least...Mr. Harper, world’s legendary diener. His words, not mine.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A diener? Imagine the children’s faces when Mr. Harper open-mindedly explained how handling corpses at the city morgue is his everyday business. The guy specializes in detaching a corpse’s organs. Seriously, who wants to grow up and be a diener?”

  “I don’t know, maybe someone does. It must have its perks.”

  “What? Going through some fat guy’s dead body? Oh yeah, I’m sure kids all over the world are lining up for that as we speak and parents are full-on supporting their children.”

  “Well, parents sometimes don’t know what’s best for their children. Big deal. It’s a respectable profession, Jess. Give it a rest.”

  She lifts a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Can’t we agree on something for once? I don’t even get your logic. And speaking of things I don’t get, what’s that you’re eating like a five year old?”

  I look at the label sticker on the cup. “Creamy milk chocolate pudding. Good source of calcium, vitamin A, D, and—”

  “Who on God’s good earth eats chocolate pudding for breakfast?”

  I scrape the bottom of the cup, leaving no chocolate behind. “People who like pudding. Oh, and look what it says here.” I point at the sticker and turn the cup so she can see. “Great for lunches or anytime.”

  One hand on her hip, Jess looks at me like I’m being an unbearable child. I shoot the empty cup into a trash bin some two yards away.

  “Okay listen,” she says as she pokes at the eggs and takes a bite, “the thing about career week is that I want you to be there.”

  “Yeah, but why? I walk around in bathing suits for a living. I’m not out refreezing the North Pole.”

  “There are about seven boys in my class. The rest are girls. It occurs to me that the girls need a female influence, a successful, encouraging one too.”

  “Great. So why don’t you call the First Lady?”

  “Sophie, stop with the jokes for a second. I’m not asking you to go because you’re a model, I’m asking you to go because you’re smart as a whip and I know you’ll give a good talk.”

  “Fine.” Wrinkles of worry stretch from the end of my brows to my forehead. I head toward the bathroom for that shower. “I’ll be there.”

  “Promise?”

  I shift my tone to a stronger one. “I’m not hoping to die and stick a needle in my eye. I’ll be there.”

  ***

  WHY ON EARTH did I just agree to that? Why did I tell her I’d be there?

  As I’m riding the elevator of the New Yorker Hotel, I tell myself I can’t be blamed for telling Jess I will do such a thing when I don’t want to. Only the most callous of people can be so honest. I should see it on an objective level and, however annoying, or intolerable, I will go to her class and do this for her.

  The bell dings and the doors to the fourth floor open up.

  “Cavall!”

  I feel like a deer caught in bright headlights as I search for the whiny female voice calling me out. I’m assuming it’s my agent, Kim Price, since she’s virtually the only person in the world who feels the need to call me by my last name. She says it sounds cheekier. I lo
ok past the rows of lighted vanity stations and semi-naked girls and see Kim walking to me like I’m her prey. Reminding myself that I don’t want to be dead prey, I look at her intently, very puffed up all of a sudden. She’s slim, and young, dresses like she lives in a haute couture house, and her ginger bob cut drops straight down. It was always her dream to be a model, and there’s no doubt to her beauty, but height-wise she falls short.

  “Well, there you are, my dearest shining star, triple-dipped in unpunctuality! Where have you been? And what happened, why the hell are you soaked?”

  “Have you been outside? It’s raining cats and dogs out there.”

  “So? Use an umbrella like the rest of us, dammit!” she yells. Her fiery green irises sparkle. “What’d I tell you about coming in early today? You know business is looking bad, Cavall. You need this. I sure as shit need this. Bookings are close to dead, so you better grace the runway like there’s no tomorrow.”

  “Ha! Not for what they’re paying me.”

  I walk around her, but she tugs my arm and blocks my way. “What has gotten into you? The days where you actually get to choose what to do are over. Your glory days are gone. Look around you! Look at all these young girls fresh out of grade school. You think they won’t replace you? Think again! This is a hard industry. Always evolving, always changing, new girls, fresh looks...the newest fashion trend...it’s what keeps it going! If it’s not going, it’s not working. If you’re not going, you’re not working. Are you following me here?”

  “Yes, I know where I work. Why are you telling me all this?”

  “Because maybe you oughta remember...” she comes closer so as not to let other people hear, “who you are. You are a coat rack. A coat rack who happens to be walking on thin ice. A coat rack who happens to be in debt to me and the company she works for. Tick tock, Cavall. That’s the sound of your days as a model coming to an end.”