Traitorous Heart 3

By: Breena Wilde


Special thanks to my awesome cover artist, Steven Novak; to my editor at Clean Leaf Editing, Mary Johnson Heiser; and especially to my family for making the stories in my head become a reality. You’re all rock stars to me.


Volume 3

Sex with a rock star + a murder = Katie Jayne’s life.


Katie wanted to be a lawyer. She wanted a husband and 2.5 kids. What she got was a jerk ex-fiancé and a best friend accused of murder. She can’t do anything about her ex’s death, but she can do everything in her power to prove Birdy’s innocence.

Then there's Griffin, the rock god billionaire who’s also the lead singer of Crushed Velvet. The sex with him is amazing, addictive and delicious. It’s also over. It has to be. Katie needs to focus on her friend.

Besides, Katie heard Griffin and his band went to L.A. to sign a record deal. Long distance friendships don’t even last, let alone whatever she and Griffin had. Great sex isn’t the stuff of eternal love.

And then there’s Cage Devereux, the attorney handling Birdy’s case. The cocky ex-marine dresses like a millionaire, talks about the Rangers like they are all that matters, and has a mouth like a sailor. He’s infuriating, and Katie can’t stop thinking about him.



The 13th Precinct was on 21st street, New York, New York. It was a rather unassuming building: tan brick divided by dirty windows, except for the top row, which was stained glass. It could’ve been an apartment building from the way it looked on the outside. The only thing that distinguished it from the wall of buildings was the American flag hanging from a flagpole above the door.

A slight wind blew and I pushed some stray hair off my face. I took a deep breath, mentally preparing myself, pulled open the heavy plate-glass door, and walked to the front desk.

A balding male police officer sat behind the desk. His head shone like a polished bowling ball, gleaming in the fluorescent lights. “I’m here to see Bird… I mean Pamela Bird.”

He glanced up, his bloodshot eyes giving me a once over. “Name?”

“Katie Jayne.”


“What?” I was confused. Did he want my lawyer’s license or my private investigator’s license? I didn’t have either. I’d discovered that, to be an official PI, I needed a lot more than a cool name, like Katie Jayne, PI. I needed logged hours working under an actual private investigator. I needed to study and take a test.

He sighed. “I need to see your driver’s license or some form of ID, Miss.”

“Oh.” I opened my purse, took my license from my wallet, and held it out.

His meaty hand pulled it from my grasp. “Just a moment.” I watched him type some information on the computer. “Says here your name is Dandelion.”

Usually the name got at least a snicker. The man gave me a blank stare. Stupid. Fucking. Name.

Um, yes, that’s my given name, but I go by Katie.”

Uh-huh.” He picked up a phone receiver.

As I waited I turned to check out the waiting area. Plastic chairs were placed in rows. The morning light shone through the old stained-glass windows, casting colorful lights against the walls and floor.

A few people milled about, including a man in a bomber hat. He was at the drinking fountain, slurping like he hadn’t had water in weeks. One of the flaps on his bomber hat was missing, emphasizing his dirty ear. His tan coat was covered in stains, as were his pants. On his feet were slippers. When he’d had his fill of water, he shuffled over to a seat, the slippers’ plastic soles dragging against the concrete.

“Go in. The inmate is waiting for you.”

“Thank you,” I said, turning back and smiling at the balding man with rosy cheeks.

He smirked.

So he wasn’t the friendly sort. I put my hand out, expecting him to hand me back my license, but the pudgy officer shook his head. “You’ll get it back when you’re finished.”

“Okay.” I stuck my wallet back in my purse and went to the steel door, grabbing the handle. The door clicked open. I went through.

“Leave your purse in one of those lockers. Shut the door, turn the orange key, take it out, and bring it to me. I’ll hold it until you return.” The female officer pointed toward a room filled with small steel lockers as she spoke.

I went over and did as she said, then handed her the key. She snapped a picture of me. “Name?” she asked without looking up.

“Katie.” I cleared my throat. “Um, Katie Jayne.”

She glanced up, her eyebrows arched in question. “That isn’t what it says in our system. Want to try again?”

I sighed. Damn my parents and their hippie-dippy ways.

“Name,” she repeated.

“Dandelion Katelyn Jayne,” I answered, feeling like a complete idiot.

The officer smiled, flashing a toothy grin. “Fucking parents, right?”

I nodded.

She typed a few more strokes on the keyboard and then said, “Come and stand on the shoe prints.” She got up and walked over to the edge of her desk. I saw the green shoe prints and stood. “Lift your arms and don’t move.”

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