Part 1 (1/2)

Tainted Black.

A Forbidden Romance.

By Shanora Williams.

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 l.u.s.t, 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.

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 bulls.h.i.+t 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 sn.o.bby 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 moments 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 cla.s.sy 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-s.h.i.+rt 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 cla.s.sic 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 a.s.sumed 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 a.s.sumed 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?”