Heart of stone, p.1
Heart of Stone, page 1
Written by Rachel Starr
Copyright
No part of this book may be reproduced, reverse-engineered, transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews. Please respect the author's hard work and do not post or share this work.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, establishments, organizations, real people, or real places are used fictitiously to provide a sense of authenticity to the story. Other names, characters, places, or events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. This is nothing about this story that is true. It’s all a work of fantasy, built in a fictional world meant for your reading pleasure.
“Heart of Stone” is Copyright © 2023, RS Publishing, RachelStarrBooks.com. All rights reserved.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Six Months Later
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Gunner
Chapter Thirteen
Gunner
Chapter Fourteen
Rachel
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Gunner
Chapter Seventeen
Rachel
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Gunner
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Rachel
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Gunner
Chapter Twenty Five
Rachel
Heart of Stone is the first book in the Lace Elm, Texas series. You can find my other books in the series as they become available at RachelStarrBooks.com.
If you enjoy this story, please take a moment and leave me a review on Amazon. It really would mean the world to me.
Chapter One
They say when you meet the one, you’ll just instinctively know. That wasn’t the case with me and Trevor. He wasn’t normally my type, yet he somehow swept me off my feet.
If I had married Trevor, I would be a widow today. But we never took that step, and now, it was too late. Now he was nothing but ash. There wasn’t anything left but an empty home, a half-filled urn, one cold side of a king-sized bed, and the sprawling nothingness inside me where grief should have been.
I had loved Trevor, hadn’t I?
My dreams were a jumbled mess; imagined images of the car accident I hadn’t been allowed to see, memories of Trevor’s voice whispering my name as our limbs tangled together, the stark white paper of his death certificate, our dark home lit by candlelight, and the sterile, shining steel of the morgue where I had been asked to confirm his identity just from the platinum ring he had been wearing.
I was in such a knot of love, death, and aching loneliness, and I wasn’t sure how I could ever untangle it all.
When you hear the phrase “I was swept off my feet,” it evokes images of being whisked away from some humdrum life and inserted into a fantasy world with the perfect person beside you. In the beginning, I had felt that way, so lucky and infatuated, but as time wore on, the luster wore off, and I was left missing my time in Dallas as an independent woman. I like to think if things had continued on, as usual, I would have found it within myself to leave. Yet, when Trevor died, it was as though I had been woken out of a deep sleep by a cold bucket of water thrown over me.
I missed him. I felt bereft. But also, I felt free.
And then there was the guilt. I cared for Trevor. I was sure of that. But despite how much I felt for him, I still felt overwhelming relief that he was no longer here.
The last time I had felt free had been the last night I had spent single, standing on the balcony of my apartment in Dallas, watching the sun set through the patchwork clouds. I had been independent, with my career at its height.
My youth was an unfinished puzzle, but I was slowly putting together the pieces of who I was. I was coming into my own.
Where exactly had I fallen off the right path, only to end up an almost widow at my age? If I traced it all back to the beginning, I guess my first fuck up was going to the garden party.
Leaving Los Angeles and moving to Dallas had been a risk, but necessary to break all the old habits holding me back. I flourished faster than I had ever expected, but keeping up with it all wasn't easy. Living the LA lifestyle can wear a person down.
Everyone kept telling me that moving to Dallas at that point in my career would be a mistake. It would ruin me. But I wouldn’t hear it.
I wasn’t going to let anything get in my way of becoming a star. Back then, I had my entire future plotted out. Eyes on the prize. But the universe had other ideas.
Being away from the center of production, I had to work extra hard to get noticed and to attend more networking events than I might have had to if I still lived in LA.
If I wanted to get the attention of those in charge of production, then I had to make sure I was at the events those people were at. No matter how annoying or lame those events were.
This meant flying back and forth from Dallas to LA for work. Sometimes it would just be for a few days to shoot a movie, but at least once a year, I made a longer trip, staying four to six weeks in a row.
My life changed during one of those trips. Whenever I was in LA, I tried to attend all the industry gatherings that I could. I had to get as much face time in as I could while I was in town.
The one event that sealed my fate was a garden party, of all things, hosted by an investor for a major studio. If you wanted a chance to be cast in one of the studio’s movies, then you had better attend their events. They used the parties as their way of scouting talent for upcoming productions.
A lot of the industry stars were there, all vying to get the attention of the right people. This was before OnlyFans was a thing, so if you wanted to make it in the industry, you needed to be cast in movies. The more movies you were in, the more money you made. That’s just how it worked back then.
This particular investor was a pretty big deal. He not only put a lot of money into a big industry studio, but he was also an investor in the company that put on the big awards show each year.
This wasn’t unusual, though. All the players in the adult industry were connected by subtle webs, and I needed to make myself an unforgettable string in said web.
I remember everything so clearly, wondering if I had made a single different decision, would it have changed the course of my life?
If I had worn a different dress or put my hair up instead of wearing it loose, maybe I wouldn’t have caught Trevor’s eye, and it would have been a different girl staring sleeplessly at the ceiling in an empty house, caught between sadness that the other side of the bed was empty and relief that whatever craziness Trevor had roped me into unknowingly was a thing of the past.
That night, before the party, I dressed for success. I had perfected the art of chit-chat with producers, directors, and photographers, of course, but whether or not I got work also depended on how elegant and alluring I could appear leaning up against a wall or drinking from a wine glass, chin tilted and back arched just so. Visuals were everything.
I basically had two separate closets; my regular clothes and the clothes I wore for work. It was a necessary evil. It wasn’t like the clothes I needed for work were all that practical in my everyday life.
I pulled a dress from that latter closet, slipping it over my head and tugging it down until the fit was perfect. It was a body-hugging slip dress, so dark green it was nearly black, shimmering and silky, ending above my knees. It was simple, but that was the goal.
My body, and the way it would look in my clothing, was the focal point. Because how I looked in an outfit spoke volumes about what I would look like out of them.
Makeup was the same, applied to appear natural but also to showcase where shadows would fall beneath my cheekbones and the poutiness of my mouth. I was a beautiful canvas looking for an artist.
I remember standing in front of the floor-length mirror in my bedroom, tossing my hair over my shoulder and dragging my eyes and hands over my body, from the hollow of my throat to the swell of my breasts and, finally, the slope of my hips. I was young, attractive, and vibrantly alive.
Nothing had changed in my appearance between then and now, even if it seemed a lifetime ago. It wasn’t vanity, just an awareness of my body that many people didn’t have, but it was important for an excellent model. My height, dark hair, sun-kissed skin, enviable curves, and long legs had come naturally, but it had taken genuine work to keep myself in excellent shape and learn my trade.
The garden party was held at the property of one of the directors of the studio. I’d been at this house a handful of times in the past. This director was always hosting parties. He thought it was a good way to get to know performers he might want to cast in his movies.
While some directors did your typical “go see,” not this guy. He wanted to get to know actors in a casual setting. Rumor has it, he was re
Crickets sang, somehow still audible above the soft pop music being piped over the speakers hidden throughout the grounds. The flat, perfectly manicured lawn stretched out behind the residence, dotted with tables and bursts of enormous floral displays. The director’s wife was obsessed with her gardens, and that made his place perfect for parties like these.
Overall, it wasn’t a bad event. I just didn’t like going to these kinds of parties. I hated having to be on show, knowing I was there to be judged – to be deemed worthy.
The highlight of the party was the champagne that someone handed me midway through the night, which ended up being pleasantly sweet.
I had twirled slowly for a few producers, subtly bragged about my former achievements, and fake smiled until my cheeks hurt. It was work, and it was fine. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary except possibly that champagne.
It hadn’t been until I considered leaving that my future was set in stone. You hear people say that when you meet your soul mate, the world will tilt on its axis. While I noticed Trevor almost immediately, I stayed firmly planted on the ground, balancing on the balls of my feet like I had been all night, so my stilettos didn’t sink into the soft earth.
He approached me as I leaned on one of the tall tables, observing the band on stage and planning on how best to make my departure. I smiled politely as he joined me there, not taking much note of him until he spoke.
“So,” he started, causing me to turn to face him, “is it envy or ambition?”
It took me a second to process the strange question, but when it sank in, I bristled, standing up straighter. “I’m sorry, what?”
He reached out, running the back of his knuckles down my dress where it laid over my hip. Maybe the only place it covered that he could touch without me slapping his hand away. I don’t know why I let him touch me so immediately, but it had been so unexpected I hadn’t moved.
“Your dress,” he elaborated. “Forest green carries two meanings: envy and ambition. I was wondering which you were embodying tonight.”
I quickly laid my hand over the spot on my hip where I could still feel the echo of his quick caress. “It’s just a dress. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Your choice was subconscious, then.” He leaned closer. “You were drawn to this dress tonight because of one of those emotions. So, beautiful girl, are you feeling envious or ambitious?”
I know my eyes must have been so round when I looked at him, completely thrown by the conversation. It was so strange, completely out of left field. I had been hit on by so many men I had lost count, but I had zero clue what this man was doing.
He didn’t look like someone I needed to be cautious with, though. In fact, when I took the time to observe him as a man and not just another party guest, I could see why he had so much confidence. The man had deep brown hair, but when the light hit it, I could see hints of red. It was short and slicked back from his face, highlighting his impressive bone structure, straight nose, and hazel eyes.
He was putting his weight on the table we were standing around, but based on my height in heels. He was about 6’1, with a swimmer's frame, and dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit.
“Ambitious,” I answered after a few moments, tilting my head as I observed him.
He smirked as if he had known the answer all along. “That’s what I assumed. There is no one at this party that you would have any reason to be envious of.”
I returned the small grin at his compliment. “Are you flirting with me?”
“It depends,” he responded. “Would you be amiable to me flirting with you?”
I crossed my arms, tapping my lips with one finger as if in deep thought. The man put his hands in his pockets, watching me as if I was the only one at the party while he waited for my answer.
“Yes, but only if you answer a question for me this time,” I said finally.
“Go ahead.”
“If you know so much about my subconscious decisions just by the color of my dress, what does it mean that you’re wearing a black suit? Are you subconsciously evil, or maybe the baron of a vast coal mining operation?”
“Oh, you’re funny.” He laughed but moved forward until he was only inches from me. My own laugh died in my throat as I looked up at him and how close those hazel eyes had suddenly become.
“Black has many meanings, beautiful girl. Power, mystery, elegance.” He took my hand in his, laying it against his chest, apparently, so I would be touching the aforementioned suit and, only by coincidence, his body. His voice had gone deep. “But if you must know, its meaning tonight … is that they only make men's suits in about three colors.”
Taken off guard, I blew out an amused breath. “Well, alright. A little anticlimactic, but at least you’re honest. I’m Rachel.”
He plucked my hand from his chest, this time brushing his lips over my knuckles, causing me to shiver even in the humid night. “Trevor.”
Towards the end of the evening, I extricated myself from the company of a particularly loquacious industry photographer, who was intent on explaining how perfect I would be to model all-natural organic fiber dresses his friend was releasing next year.
I feigned enthusiasm while thinking that the entire line sounded itchy. Still, I didn’t want to offend him, so I took his business card, letting him kiss the air around my face European style before I left, and it couldn’t be soon enough. Because I had felt a certain set of eyes on me the entire time, and when I slid my gaze over to where he stood a dozen feet from the music stage, Trevor was watching me with that hooded gaze.
I nibbled my bottom lip, considering my next move. During our brief conversation, he’d mentioned being involved in antique art, meaning we were unlikely to ever cross paths professionally.
He was only here in the first place because the investor and he knew each other from deals in the art world they had worked on. That meant I was free and clear to accept whatever attention Trevor offered me without affecting my career.
He had certainly caught my attention and, more importantly, my curious interest.
And he was interesting. Despite the joking manner in which he had declared it earlier, Trevor was mysterious. When I asked about all the color theory talk, he had given me the antique art line and refused to elaborate further, expertly turning the conversation to my career.
He seemed surprised that I had moved out to Dallas alone from my small hometown, commenting about how he had been absolutely correct in calling me ambitious. I had preened under the praise, especially since it was about something other than my body, which is the first thing most men wanted to investigate about me.
This time I approached him, and he let me as if he had known all along that I would find my way back to him. His smile was slow and contagious, and I felt my own lips twitching as I reached him.
“You know,” I said under my breath but still loudly enough to be heard over the acoustic set being played on stage, “if you give me your address, I can mail you a signed headshot since it seems you’re my biggest fan here tonight.”
“I’d surely cherish it all my days. How’d you get here tonight?”
The lightning-fast change of subject left me reeling, but only for a second. “My manager called me an Uber. I assume you arrived by private jet?”
“Helicopter, actually,” he parried right back. No one would ever doubt Trevor’s quick wit. “Let me drive you home.”
“I don’t think I know you well enough for all that,” I answered hesitantly. The word yes jumped to my tongue immediately, and I had to swallow it down.
He gave me a look of approval before checking his watch. “It looks like I have about an hour to make the transition from stranger to trusted acquaintance. How about it? Get to know me, Rachel, and then if you like what you discover, you can decide if you know me well enough or not. And I insist that if you do let me escort you home, you let a few friends know you’re having someone drive you. I want you to feel safe with me.”
