Love Against the Odds: A Rags to Romance Book, page 1
LOVE AGAINST THE ODDS
A RAGS TO ROMANCE BOOK
BY
MALLORY MONROE
Copyright©2024 Teresa McClain-Watson
All rights reserved. Any use of the materials contained in this book without the expressed written consent of the author and/or her affiliates, including scanning, uploading and downloading at file sharing and other sites, and distribution of this book by way of the Internet or any other means, is illegal and strictly prohibited.
AUSTIN BROOK PUBLISHING
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THE AUTHOR AND AUSTIN BROOK PUBLISHING DOES NOT GIVE THEIR
CONSENT.
This novel is a work of fiction. All characters are fictitious. Any similarities to anyone living or dead are completely accidental. The specific mention of known places or venues are not meant to be exact replicas of those places, but they are purposely embellished or imagined for the story’s sake. The cover art are models. They are not actual characters.
THE RAGS TO ROMANCE SERIES
STANDALONE BOOKS
IN PUBLICATION ORDER:
1. BOBBY SINATRA: IN ALL THE WRONG PLACES
2. BOONE & CHARLY: SECOND CHANCE LOVE
3. PLAIN JANE EVANS AND THE BILLIONAIRE
4. GENTLEMAN JAMES AND GINA
5. MONTY & LaSHAY: RESCUE ME
6. TONY SINATRA: IF LOVING YOU IS WRONG
7. WHEN A MAN LOVES A WOMAN
8. THE DUKE AND THE MAID
9. BOONE AND CHARLY: UPSIDE DOWN LOVE
10. HOOD RILEY AND THE ICE MAN
11. RECRUITED BY THE BILLIONAIRE
12. ABANDONED HEARTS
13. HOOD RILEY AND THE ICE MAN 2:
JUST WHEN I NEEDED YOU MOST
14. DANIEL’S GIRL
15. THAT PLACE IN HIS HEART
16.WHERE LOVE GROWS
17. BULLDOG BURTON AND THE WAITRESS
18. LOVE COMES FOR CHRISTMAS
19. LOVE AGAINST THE ODDS
MALLORY MONROE SERIES:
THE RENO GABRINI/MOB BOSS SERIES (22 BOOKS)
THE SAL GABRINI SERIES (12 BOOKS)
THE TOMMY GABRINI SERIES (11 BOOKS)
THE MICK SINATRA SERIES (15 BOOKS)
THE BIG DADDY SINATRA SERIES (7 BOOKS)
THE TEDDY SINATRA SERIES (5 BOOKS)
THE TREVOR REESE SERIES (3 BOOKS)
THE AMELIA SINATRA SERIES (2 BOOKS)
THE BRENT SINATRA SERIES (1 BOOK)
THE ALEX DRAKOS SERIES (10 BOOKS)
THE OZ DRAKOS SERIES (2 BOOKS)
THE MONK PALETTI SERIES (2 BOOKS)
THE PRESIDENT’S GIRLFRIEND SERIES (8 BOOKS)
THE PRESIDENT’S BOYFRIEND SERIES (1 BOOK)
THE RAGS TO ROMANCE SERIES (19 BOOKS)
GIRLS ON THE RUN: A GABRINI VALENTINE
STANDALONE BOOKS:
DANIEL’S GIRL
(Brand new version updated and expanded)
ROMANCING MO RYAN
MAEBELLE MARIE
TABLE OF CONTENTS
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
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
ONE YEAR EARLIER
Freda “Fred” Davis woke up with a smile on her face. Three months into their relationship and this was the first time they spent the entire night together. Dinner at a cute little quaint restaurant in Brooklyn Park, a drive around the square, and then a wonderfully passionate time at her place. But instead of leaving afterwards the way he always did, he shocked her and stayed. When he didn’t move, and then spoke his intention, she laid there for a moment, taking it in. And then she looked at him.
“What do you mean?”
“You heard me the first time.”
“You’re spending the night?” She had surprise in her voice.
“Um,” he responded, which was his non-communicable way of communicating with her, and he drew her closer against him.
That, she felt, was progress!
It was the best night she’d ever had.
Usually difficult to fall asleep, she slept like a baby.
And waking up the next morning, she turned over slowly and happily, hoping that he was still sleeping and she could get a private peep at his gorgeously perfect jet-black face again. She wanted to feast on that perfect face and think about the time that woman in Foster Care, the woman the State paid to take care of her, told her how unlovable she was and how nobody would ever want her. She was only nine at the time, but she cussed out that woman to her face, telling her that she was a liar and the truth wasn’t in her and that she would have so many people loving her that she wasn’t going to be able to keep up with their love.
But the only thing her outburst got her was another packed garbage bag and removal to another horrible foster home where she had to start all over again. But at least she stood up for herself. That was how she felt about it. But life never stood up for her as she grew older, and it seemed as if that old woman told the truth. That she was the liar, not that woman. That she wasn’t as lovable as she had thought.
Until she met Armondo.
But when she turned toward his handsome face, her sleepy, smiling eyes flew wide open. And she leaned up on her elbows. Not only was he not in her bed any longer, but a quick perusal around her studio apartment made clear that he was not in her home anymore either. Not in the bathroom because she could see that from her bed. Not in the kitchen, because it was right across the one-room flat too. And the bright sun shining through the miniblinds left no doubt that she was alone in her apartment. She squinted from the light shining through, unable to wrap her still-sleepy brain around the fact that he left like that. On their first full night together, why would he just leave? Why would he tip out, like they’d done something wrong? Like they’d made a mistake? Like he’d made a mistake?
She laid back down, this time on her back. He was the one who wanted to take it super-slow, yet he was the one who decided to spend the night. To take their relationship to the next level. In the light of day, did he have second thoughts?
And that was when it hit her. She leaned up on her elbows again, looked over at the blinging light coming through her miniblinds, and her already big eyes stretched wider. She grabbed her phone off of the nightstand, saw that it was already half past eight in the morning when she was due at work by nine, and panic set in. And she was blaming him for not waking her up, as if that was his responsibility. She threw the sheet off of her naked body and hopped out of bed.
She hurried to the bathroom, turned on the shower as she peed and then brushed and gargled, and then she showered so quickly that she wondered if she broke a record. By the time she dressed in a miniskirt and waist-length jacket, threw her long, thick hair into a ponytail, grabbed her phone and keys, slung her shoulder back across her shoulder and chest and made it out of her apartment, she had twelve minutes to get to work. It was in walking distance, but it was a twenty-minute walk.
She ran down the three flights to her apartment building’s exit doors, but was interrupted by Marge, the building’s super and a general pain in the you-know-what for most of the tenants. She was watering the plants in the lobby.
“Rent was three days ago,” she said in that annoyingly Eastern European accent of hers as she took a moment from her plants to remind Fred.
“You’ll have it before the fifth. It’s not late until after the fifth,” Fred reminded her.
“What I cannot understand is why you do not ask that man that comes over all the time to pay your rent. And you know of whom I speak. The one that left your apartment last night looking so smug as if it is he who owns this building. Back in my country, we did not give away the milk unless the cow was willing to pay and pay well.”
“Yeah, that would be prostitution,” said Fred as she was about to push open the exit doors.
“You always have something smart to say, young lady,” said a now feisty Marge. “Calling me a prostitute. At least I get the cost of admission. At least I have the sense to make them pay. You just let them in for free. And you have the gall to call me a whore? You are nothing but a pile of filth too stupid to be a whore,” she said so nastily that it stunned Fred.
She looked at Marge. Why did people always feel a need to punish her for speaking up? They could say anything they wanted to say about her, but as soon as she spoke up for herself, they were offended? That was why she had no friends. Not one to her name. It was too much work!
She decided to forget Marge and leave. But as she was halfway out the door, she suddenly realized what Marge had actually said. She turned around. “What time did he leave?”
Marge frowned. “What time did who leave?”
“You said he left my apartment last night, not this morning.”
“Oh your lover boy! Yes, that is when he left. Do you have a problem with that too?”
“What time did he leave?”
She could tell Marge didn’t see why that was relevant, but she did think about it. Fred glanced at the time on her phone. Marge was taking too long to think about it, but it was important to Fred.
“Right at eleven thirty,” Marge finally remembered. “Reason I am certain is because when I heard him walking down the stairs and went to take a peep. The Tonight Show was just coming on. And you should have seen him prancing around with his arrogant self. But you can pick’em.”
Eleven thirty? It was just past eleven when they fell asleep in each other’s arms. And less than thirty minutes later he was out of there? When he promised to stay all night? What the hell! Fred couldn’t believe it. And she could tell Marge wanted her to spill the tea, but she wasn’t about to let that old hateful woman see her sweat. And she was still late for work! She took off.
She practically ran the entire way to the Baltimore Dispatch newspaper building, all the while thinking how weird it was that Mondo would do that to her. She arrived late by just over ten minutes, but at least she was there, she thought as she hurried into the newsroom and plopped down behind her desk before anybody could notice.
Aliyah, one of only a handful of black reporters on staff, noticed. The front of her desk and the front of Fred’s desk were bumper to bumper. “You’re late,” she said as she looked at Fred over her moon-shaped reading glasses.
Fred didn’t respond. What was she going to say? I’m not late, I’m on time? That would be ridiculous. She said nothing instead. Mainly because Aliyah always reminded her of what she was not. She always made her feel less than. Aliyah was that credit to her race kind of black woman white folks adored. She could do no wrong in their eyes. Always on time. Always well put together. Always receiving accolades, but never any promotions, from the bosses. She was everything Fred was not. And it could not be more obvious by just looking at Aliyah’s smart Donna Karan dress suit she wore and her blonde weave long and flowing against her impeccable black skin. Versus Fred’s miniskirt attire more befitting high school, and her thick black hair pushed up into a ponytail so messy from her fast dressing and run to work that it had puffed nearly all the way out of the hairband that was supposed to keep it together. She looked like a waste of space compared to the more refined Aliyah. And the amount of men that fawned over Aliyah was insane too. They all respected Fred because she was a damn good reporter and they couldn’t deny it, and many of them would have been thrilled to bed her had she let them, but they all wanted to take Aliyah home to mama, and to marry her. Which, to Fred, gave Aliyah a decided leg up.
“Did you hear me?”
Fred was unlocking her desk drawer. She’d heard that heifer. “You’re talking to me?” She removed her shoulder bag from across her chest and shoulder.
“I said you’re late.”
“Barely, yes.”
“Late is late, Fred. There’s no barely in it. Do better,” she admonished her.
Fred stuffed her bag in her desk drawer and turned on her desk computer. Aliyah wasn’t Fred’s supervisor, but she always acted as if she was. That was why Fred ignored her. But when she looked up and saw Armondo coming out of Eddie’s office, and Armondo glanced at her as if he didn’t split on her last night when he’d promised to spend the night, she looked away from him. Their relationship was private. They never gave hints around the office. But it still was curious to Fred. “Wonder what that’s about?”
“What’s what about?” Aliyah asked her.
“Eddie and Mondo.” Eddie Clyston was the managing editor of the Dispatch. He was the big boss. Armondo was the Sports Desk editor. He was Fred’s boss. “Why would Mondo be meeting with Eddie on a Tuesday morning?”
“So they’re meeting on Tuesday. Big deal.”
“But they already had their weekly meeting yesterday. What’s changed from yesterday to today? What would they be talking about?”
“Let me guess,” said Aliyah. “Oh that’s right. They’re talking about you.”
Fred was genuinely confused that she would say such a thing. “Me? What did I do?”
Aliyah looked at her again over her reading glasses with a you know what you did look on her face.
“That again?”
“Yes, that again,” said Aliyah.
“I told the truth at that press conference yesterday.”
“We’re not paid to tell the truth. We’re paid to report the news.”
“And the news can’t be the truth?”
“Most times it’s not.”
“Come on, Aliyah! On what planet is a conviction for sexual assault by a man who wants to be the next Orioles manager not news? When is that not news?”
“When that man is the person every Orioles fan believes can win them that pennant again and the world series again if he becomes our next manager. That’s when!”
“That’s absurd,” said Fred. “They can play politics all they want. It’s my job to report the truth and I will report the truth. He had a press conference, I asked about his past and that woman he was convicted of assaulting. It was fair game.”
“And you wonder why, Miss Fair Game, that after a decade with this same organization you’re still a first-string beat reporter. Can barely pay your rent on that studio apartment, but you’re good right? You’re the truth-teller. Keep up the good work. Keep telling your truth. And you’ll die a beat reporter.”
Fred would be lying if that reality, that her career was going nowhere fast, didn’t cross her mind a time or two. And it wasn’t that she didn’t want to go along to get along. She just didn’t know how to pull it off.
“Davis!”
Fred was startled when she heard Eddie yell her name over the newsroom intercom. She turned quickly to the sound. “Sir?”
“In my office!”
“Uh-oh,” said another nearby reporter jokingly. “You’ve been summoned to the principal’s office, Freddie.”
“Deny everything,” said yet another reporter as Fred got up and made her way to Eddie’s office near the back of the room.
She took a deep breath, because she somehow knew it was going to be bullshit. And walked on in.
CHAPTER TWO
Armondo had left Eddie’s office, but to Fred’s surprise he had apparently returned through Eddie’s back entrance. That entrance was usually reserved for high-profile people who needed to pay a visit to the managing editor but didn’t want it known around the building. Which led Fred to believe that Armondo didn’t want it known around the building that he was in the meeting with she and Eddie. Which heightened her anxiety that they were going to censor her for calling out that potential Orioles manager. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Sit down, Davis,” said Eddie, who was seated behind his desk with Armondo standing beside him.
“If it’s about that press conference,” Fred started saying as she sat down, trying her best to pretend Armondo wasn’t in the room too, “I stand by my question. This isn’t rumor or allegations I was asking him about. He was actually convicted of that crime fifteen years ago. The public has a right to know.”
“Of course they do,” Eddie agreed. “Why are you bringing that up?”
“Oh. I thought. I assumed that’s why you called me into your office.”
“That’s nonsense. You think I have time to be dealing with low level crap like that? What do you take me for?”
