Crowned (Girls of Wonder Lane Book 2)

  Crowned

  a novel

  Christina Coryell

  Books by Christina Coryell:

  The Camdyn Series

  A Reason to Run

  A Reason to Be Alone

  A Reason to Forget

  For No Reason

  Girls of Wonder Lane

  Simply Mad

  Crowned

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/AuthorChristinaCoryell

  Twitter: @c_tinacoryell

  www.christinacoryell.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. To contact the publisher, submit a request at www.christinacoryell.com.

  Text copyright © 2015 by Christina Coryell

  Cover images copyright © 2015 by Kassi Hillhouse Photography

  Crowned

  To Britten,

  For words and faith that have inspired me

  and influenced this story

  C hapter One

  “Something stinks, and this time, it’s not the sewer.”

  Pulling the microphone away from her face, the trim yet shapely young woman brushed a strand of dark hair from her eyes, taking care to keep one wave falling gracefully across her shoulder. “For the sake of our city and its population, might we have a frank and open discussion? Let’s cut to the facts, fellow citizens: It is the sewer, isn’t it? If the members of the City Council would open their eyes for five seconds, they would see that the man they placed in charge of this mess is not doing his duty. But ignorance is not the only thing that blinds; occasionally it is a willingness to ignore the simple facts. That is what we are wrestling with in this particular case, because this is cronyism at its worst. Whose brother is he again? Or was it cousin? And does anyone really care what I’m saying, or have they already gone back to eating their fish sticks and macaroni and cheese because the weather has been dissected and the sports scores are played out, and they’re not interested in this drivel? Why do we keep getting sent on these stench-hole assignments, Kenny?”

  She slipped her hand sleekly across her tresses—two parts dark brown to one part cherry red—meticulously colored the perfect hue. Her crowning glory, hair that cascaded across her shoulders in flawless, shimmering waves.

  “Go again,” she ordered, stretching herself taller and taking on an aura of poised resolve. “Something stinks, and this time, it’s not the sewer. After taking complaints from many members of the public and thoroughly assessing the situation, such is the finding of the personnel in charge of the situation: the sewer system is not to blame. While the City Council works with local environmental agencies to discover the source of the unfortunate mess, rest assured that Channel Six Action News will be here to uncover the story. In the meantime, perhaps Summer and Denton can provide a breath of fresh air from the studio.”

  Mitch Penner paused the video and stretched his arms to the back of his head as he leaned farther in his leather armchair behind his workspace, tilting enough that the mechanism under the chair clicked and creaked. Just as it appeared about to topple, he sprang forward and placed an elbow on his desk.

  “Did Kenny have any comments as to why you keep getting sent on stench-hole assignments?” Mitch asked.

  Twisting uncomfortably in her chair, she fought the urge to speak her mind. “A bit of a joke. That is allowed, right?”

  “Harley…”

  “Look, I’m professional, am I not? I give you the slant you want on these stories, and I manage to make them interesting somehow. I’m your most popular reporter, and you’re allowing me to languish on the flybys.”

  “You’re young and you haven’t been here that long yet,” he argued, bringing his left hand up to rub his brow thoughtfully.

  “Almost two years now. I’ve more than proven myself—enough to avoid sewer trips, anyway.”

  “The story is where the story is. I don’t mind you having a bit of fun, but what if that accidentally made its way to the air? It’s better if you don’t give people ammunition.”

  “Ammunition? I’m not worried about ammunition.” Would somebody really use something like that against her?

  Mitch stood and jerked on the waistband around his pants that were half a size too small, tightly pinched under his protruding stomach. If his white button-down shirt were any smaller, the buttons holding it precariously closed might have launched across the room, destroying innocent lives in their path.

  “Just do the stories you’re asked to do, Harley. I don’t need any drama right now, so don’t create any.”

  He doesn’t need any drama, she thought. Harley Laine doesn’t create drama, she makes the stories dramatic. There’s a huge difference.

  “I assure you I’m a consummate professional, Mitch,” she murmured as she rose to exit the room, heading down the hall in search of the turncoat cameraman who had most certainly stabbed her in the back. Passing three familiar locations where he might have been lounging, she finally found him standing next to the coffee bar, swirling the contents of a stack of artificial sweeteners into his cup.

  “’Sup,” he drawled casually as she took the coffee from the countertop in front of him and moved it out of his reach. “Hey, my joe.”

  Adjusting her thin frame so that she looked her most intimidating, she gave him a frosty glare. “Consider your joe confiscated until you explain why you gave Mitch a video of my snide sewer remarks.”

  Despite the fact that he was taller, he was lanky and awkward, and he looked slightly intimidated. Reaching a hand up slowly, he scratched the front of his unruly head of auburn hair. “Whaddya mean?”

  “What do you mean?” she corrected, folding her arms across her chest. “Please, Kenny, work on losing that ridiculous hillbilly accent. Your constant drawl is going to affect my speech pattern one of these days, and I’m going to be judged harshly because you choose not to speak like an educated person.”

  “One of these days, huh?” Kenny surmised, eyeing his coffee. “Sure, one of the local people’s gonna care if you say ‘hey’ instead of ‘hello’ right?” Laughing, he shook his head with a condescending grin. “What’d I do, Harley? I’m not into playing guessing games; I just want my caffeine.”

  “Mitch called me into his office to show me video of the sewer segment, where I mentioned stench-hole stories…”

  “Oh,” he muttered, realizing his part in her dignified anger. “Should have erased that, I suppose. It’s all good, though. Mitch loves ya.”

  “He certainly should,” she retorted, making sure he didn’t take her posture too lightly by stepping forward a couple inches and placing her hands on her hips. “It’s not Mitch I’m worried about. ‘It’s better not to give people ammunition,’ he said. He meant Summer, of course.”

  “Summer Davis doesn’t care what you do,” he insisted, glancing at his coffee again.

  “Doesn’t she? She knows I’m better than her, and that I deserve the desk. It’s just a matter of time before someone else notices, and then her number will be up.”

  “People love Summer.” Reaching a long arm past her frame, he clasped his cup and pulled the coffee towards him. “She’s been ‘round a long time.”

  “Too long,” she offered, stepping back and allowing him some space. “They’re going to need new blood, and
when the time comes, I want to make sure it’s mine.”

  Hurrying down the hallway, Harley sidestepped a box dropped haphazardly on the floor and tried to make a hasty exit. She was late, and that wouldn’t do. Her royal blue Manolo Blahniks with the pencil-thin heels were not making matters easier, and she attempted to push her body momentum forward so she was almost on tiptoe rather than clomping along roughly on those spindles.

  “Hey, Harley, can I get your opinion on this phrasing?” she heard Denton ask as she sped by. Normally she would make time for the handsome blond newsman six years her senior, but she was already late.

  Pausing only a second, she glanced in his doorway. “Can it wait, Denton? It’s Wednesday night, and I have an appointment.”

  “Of course, the elusive Wednesday appointment,” he added with a chuckle. “Please tell me you’re not secretly dying or something. That would ruin my weekend plans.”

  “Not dying,” she insisted as she picked up her pace and walked further down the hallway. Denton had recently begun flirting with her, which she would have appreciated were it not for the fact that she had too many irons in the fire already. Now was definitely not the time, because if she was late the whole thing would go awry.

  Trying to run across the parking lot, she mentally cursed those Manolos, even while admiring them as she glanced down. Not wearing them hadn’t been an option that morning; she wanted everyone to know she was the best-dressed person in the building, and her appearance that day could have left no doubt. Popping open the door of her shiny black BMW, she swiftly tossed her Prada handbag into the passenger seat and started the ignition before she even had the door closed. A glance at the clock on the dash confirmed that she was running dangerously behind.

  Fourteen blocks she had to drive from the studio to her destination, and she squealed the tires twice as she turned, racing against the clock. The final traffic signal switched from yellow to red just as her car reached the white line, but she ignored it and gunned the BMW forward, desperate to arrive in time. Pulling up at the back of the little strip mall, she parked her slick black automobile dangerously close to a large green dumpster and flung herself out of the car, trotting the few steps to the back door with the pink lettering. Three times she pounded her fist against the door, hoping she wasn’t too late. When a few seconds passed, she put her arm against the side of the building and allowed herself to slump against it a bit, trying to catch her breath.

  The Revolving Closet, the block letters on the door read. Thinking about the name made Harley chuckle at its simple honesty.

  With a click, the door opened, and Annie Jessup gave Harley a wary glare. “I’d almost given up on you.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she attempted to explain, stepping into the cluttered space. “Mitch was on my case, and then Denton tried to hit on me—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Annie insisted, shaking a head adorned with a mass of fiery-red curls on one side and nearly shaved with her natural black on the other, lifting her pierced eyebrow just a tad and causing the tiny gold hoop to rise. “Denton, huh?”

  “Not worth discussing,” Harley told her as she closed the door behind her. Every Wednesday, like clockwork, she visited The Revolving Closet. It was one of Louisville’s premier resale locations, where most of the city’s elite women brought their handoffs. Since the new merchandise hit the shelves on Thursdays, Annie allowed Harley private viewings the evening before. The first time she visited, Harley wondered why the city’s most prestigious clientele would bestow their business on someone who looked like Annie; soon after, though, she found out she was one of them—the daughter of a business tycoon. Her rebellion against her parents looked like piercings and wild hair, and as long as she didn’t proceed to anything worse, they told all their friends to give her their patronage.

  Harley would have likely tried to befriend Annie anyway to score the clothing perks, but the two had naturally become close when Harley started visiting the resale shop—close enough that Harley considered the red-haired shop owner her best friend in all of Louisville.

  “Human Barbie dropped by yesterday,” Annie said cryptically, causing a slight grin to form on Harley’s lips. Her best hauls usually came from Faith Cooper, whom Annie casually referred to as Human Barbie. Faith’s husband owned the prestigious Cooper Corporate Financial, and apparently Faith’s daily routine involved buying overpriced clothes, wearing them once, and then bringing them to Annie. Harley and Faith were roughly the same size, so she usually only had to take the pants up by about half an inch. She also shared Faith’s foot size, which was a special bonus and had scored her many sweet pairs of shoes, including the Manolos she had on her feet at that moment.

  “Someday I will meet Faith Cooper, and she’s going to accuse me of robbing her,” Harley added with a slight giggle, sliding her handbag to the ground by the door and slipping out of her shoes. “I can almost guarantee that Faith has never run in those Manolos, and probably for good reason. I’m lucky I didn’t break my neck. Or ankle.”

  “Crazy girl,” Annie chided, shaking her head and causing those curls to dance. “I would have stayed here until…”

  “…six o’clock, I know.”

  Annie played the bass guitar for her church group on Wednesday nights, and although Harley hadn’t been to see what kind of crazy church Annie attended, she was always slightly intrigued. When I get a spare minute, she would tell herself.

  Annie stepped forward and grabbed a pair of Rock Revival jeans and held them out toward Harley. “What are you going to do when you get the desk? There won’t be any sneaking out of there before the six o’clock news when that happens.”

  “Spoken like a woman with inside information,” Harley answered, lifting an eyebrow mischievously as she took the jeans from Annie’s fingers. “I’m sure I could ask my wonderful friend to let me in here at midnight, right?” She winked for good measure. “Do you honestly think Faith Cooper wore these?”

  “Um…no. Not a chance. Probably some jeans of the month club or such nonsense. Anyway, they still have tags.”

  “Maybe she has a daughter,” Harley offered as she unzipped the back of her skirt and slid it down, stepping out of it deftly.

  “Oh, she does have a daughter,” was the response as her friend assumed a slight accent. “Her name’s Audrey. No way would that girl fit in those jeans, though.”

  “I love it when your southified speech slips out, Annie.”

  “Says the only customer who undresses in the middle of my store. There’s a little bit of hillbilly under that cherry cola hair of yours.”

  “You’re in a hurry, and I am saving you valuable time trotting back and forth to the dressing room. Besides, you love me and you know it.”

  “I do, darn it,” Annie said, pilfering through the pile of clothes. “God only knows why.”

  “It’s because I see your authentic self and we connect on a soul level.” Zipping up the frayed jeans and fastening the button, Harley gave her friend a sly grin.

  “Girl, I almost threw up in my mouth a little. Save your fancy speeches for your newscasts and your boyfriends.”

  “Newscasts and boyfriends,” Harley complained, prying the jeans off her thighs. “Newscasts would imply that I’m at the desk, which I’m not. I’m a beat reporter who had to do a story from the sewage plant today. So gross. And boyfriends… Don’t even get me started.” Accepting a black pencil skirt with a Dolce & Gabbana label, she stepped into it and pulled it to her hips. “Why couldn’t Denton show an interest in me a few weeks ago, before Kip? Not that I’m entranced by Denton—far from it—but a little headway with him could land me the desk. Kip could be helpful in the long run, but not at the present moment.”

  “And what about that guy from the country club…what was his name again?”

  Harley’s eyes went wide as she stopped and turned to her friend. “Oh, I didn’t tell you about that? The nerve of that guy! He asked me to drinks and I went to the club to meet him, which thank
fully no one knew about except you, because while I was politely waiting for the hostess to acknowledge our reservation, someone introduced me to his wife.”

  “Nuh-uh,” Annie blurted, showcasing just the level of surprise that Harley expected.

  “Oh, I assure you, it happened.” She withdrew the skirt from her ankles, unbuttoning her blouse and accepting a Carolina Herrera blue floral sleeveless dress. “Thankfully I hadn’t said anything yet about who I was meeting. ‘Confirming a reservation for Harley Laine,’ is all I got out, and then we were introduced. She comes from a long line of horse-breeding families who have participated in the Kentucky Derby for decades. I had absolutely no idea he was married. And before you say anything, I have to get my foot in the door somehow, even if it means kissing a few frogs.” Looking at the dress on her frame, Harley suddenly straightened and glanced at her friend again. “Not to insinuate that I kissed him—I wouldn’t dare. It was simply supposed to be a drink and a little flirting, to try to get some influence with the powers that be.”

  “Honestly, Harley, you should have more self-respect than that.”

  Sliding the dress back down to her ankles, she placed one hand on her hip as she gave her friend a weary sigh. “I have oodles of self-respect. Oodles.” Glancing down, she suddenly laughed. “I don’t suppose Faith brought any bras in her delivery today? I could use a couple new varieties.”

  Giving the once-over to her skinny friend who was standing in the middle of her store wearing only her undergarments, Annie simply grinned. “If she did, Human Barbie’s brassiere would not fit you, dear.”

  “Ugh. You have wounded me to the deepest parts of my being, my anarchist friend. I cannot be cheered without the bestowing of fancy, overpriced shoes.”

  Without a word, Annie handed Harley a pair of Christian Louboutin pumps, black leather with several straps across the toes.