TRU BLUE is a sexy, dark stand-alone novel written in the same loving, raw, and emotional voice romance readers have come to love, and the deeply emotional literary prose women's fiction readers have come to expect, from New York Times & USA Today bestselling, award-winning author Melissa Foster.
"With her wonderful characters and resonating emotions, Melissa Foster is a must-read author!" New York Times Bestseller Julie Kenner
"Melissa Foster is synonymous with sexy, swoony, heartfelt romance!" New York Times Bestseller Lauren Blakely
He wore the skin of a killer, and bore the heart of a lover...
There's nothing Truman Gritt won't do to protect his family--Including spending years in jail for a crime he didn't commit. When he's finally released, the life he knew is turned upside down by his mother's overdose, and Truman steps in to raise the children she's left behind. Truman's hard, he's secretive, and he's trying to save a brother who's even more broken than he is. He's never needed help in his life, and when beautiful Gemma Wright tries to step in, he's less than accepting. But Gemma has a way of slithering into people's lives and eventually she pierces through his ironclad heart. When Truman's dark past collides with his future, his loyalties will be tested, and he'll be faced with his toughest decision yet.
"You can always rely on Melissa Foster to deliver a story that's fresh, emotional and entertaining. Make sure you have all night, because once you start you won't want to stop reading. Every book's a winner!" NYT Bestselling Author Brenda Novak
|Series:||The Whiskeys: Dark Knights at Peaceful Harbor Series , #1|
|Product dimensions:||5.40(w) x 8.40(h) x 0.70(d)|
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
THE STENCH OF urine and human waste filled the dark alleynot only waste as in feces, but waste as in drug dealers, whores, and other deviants. Mud and graffiti streaked cracked and mangled concrete. Somewhere above, shouts rang out. Truman had tunnel vision as he moved swiftly between the tall buildings in the downpour. A dog barked in the distance, followed by the unmistakable yelp of a wounded animal. Truman rolled his broad shoulders forward, his hands fisted by his sides as memories hammered him, but it was the incessant torturous wailing coming from behind the concrete walls that had him breathing harder, readying for a fight. It sounded like someoneor somethingwas suffering inside the building, and despite his loathing for the woman who had brought him into the world, he wouldn’t wish that on heror wish the wrath he’d bring down on whoever was doing it on anyone else.
The rusty green metal door brought the sounds of prison bars locking to the forefront of his mind, stopping him cold. He drew in a few deep breaths, pushing them out fast and hard as memories assailed him. The wailing intensified, and he forced himself to plow through the door. The rancid, pungent scents of garbage and drugs filled the smoky room, competing with the terrified cries. In the space of a few heart-pounding seconds, Truman took in the scene. He barely recognized the nearly toothless, rail-thin woman lying lifeless on the concrete floor, staring blankly up at the ceiling. Angry track marks like viper bites covered pin-thin arms. In the corner, a toddler sat on a dirty, torn mattress, wearing filthy clothes and sobbing. Her dark hair was tangled and matted, her skin covered in grit and dirt. Her cheeks were bright red, eyes swollen from crying. Beside her a baby lay on its back, its frail arms extended toward the ceiling, shaking as it cried so hard it went silent between wails. His eyes landed on Quincy, huddled beside the woman on the floor. Tears streaked his unshaven, sunken cheeks. Those big blue eyes Truman remembered were haunted and scared, their once vibrant color now deadened, bloodshot with the sheen of a soul-stealing high. His tattooed arms revealed the demons that had swooped in after Truman was incarcerated for the crime his brother had committed, preying on the one person he had wanted to protect. He hadn’t been able to protect anyone from behind bars.
“She’s…” Quincy’s voice was nearly indiscernible. “Dead,” he choked out.
Truman’s heart slammed against his ribs. His mind reeled back to another stormy night, when he’d walked into his mother’s house and found his brother with a bloody knife in his handsand a dead man sprawled across their mother’s half-naked body. He swallowed the bile rising in his throat, pain and anger warring for dominance. He crouched and checked for a pulse, first on her wrist, then on her neck. The pit of his stomach lurched. His mind reeled as he looked past his brother to the children on the mattress.
“Those your kids?” he ground out.
Quincy shook his head. “Mom’s.”
Truman stumbled backward, feeling cut open, flayed, and left to bleed. His siblings? Living like this?
“What the hell, Quincy?” He crossed the room and picked up the baby, holding its trembling body as it screamed. With his heart in his throat, he crouched beside the toddler and reached for her, too. She wrapped shaky arms around his neck and clung with all her tiny might. They were both featherlight. He hadn’t held a baby since Quincy was born, when Truman was nine.
“I’ve been out for six months,” he seethed. “You didn’t think to tell me that Mom had more kids? That she was f**king up their lives, too? I could have helped.”
Quincy scoffed. “You told me…” He coughed, wheezing like he was on his last lung. “To f**k off.”
Truman glared at his brother, sure he was breathing fire. “I pulled you out of a f**king crack house the week I got out of prison and tried to get you help. I destroyed my life trying to protect you, you idiot. You told me to f*ck off and then went underground. You never mentioned that I have a sister and” He looked at the baby, having no idea if it was a boy or a girl. A thin spray of reddish hair covered its tiny head.