Beyond the Scent of Sugar: A Memoir by Billie River

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Cover of Beyond the Scent of Sugar by author Montana Carr

by Montana Carr

In the perpetually rain-soaked streets of Falls City, baker Billie River first encounters Martina “Marti” Starova during a violent arrest that leaves Billie’s bakery in shambles. Four years later, the enigmatic former detective reappears, now working as a private investigator, and an undeniable attraction ignites between them.

Marti is a walking contradiction – charismatic and passionate, yet reckless and unreliable. She moves through life in a haze of whiskey, cigarettes, and Shadow, her drug of choice. Despite her addictions, she possesses an irresistible magnetism that draws Billie in like a moth to flame. Their relationship unfolds in stolen moments – passionate encounters in Marti’s rundown apartment, intimate dinners, and unexpected acts of protection when Billie finds herself in danger.

As Billie becomes further entangled in Marti’s unpredictable world, she struggles with the echoes of her brother’s fatal overdose and her own fears of getting too close to someone who seems determined to self-destruct. Yet Marti offers something Billie desperately needs – a fierce sense of desire and worth after years in a loveless relationship with her ex, Deirdre.

Their connection deepens through shared experiences: Marti accompanies Billie to her high school reunion, helping her face old bullies; she mysteriously arranges for repairs when Billie’s bakery is damaged; she even saves Billie from a potential assault. Each encounter reveals new layers to their complex relationship, but Marti’s addictions and commitment issues create a perpetual push and pull between them.

When riots destroy Billie’s bakery and livelihood, the true nature of their relationship is tested. Marti’s initial dismissal of Billie’s crisis reveals painful truths about the limitations of their connection, even as she ultimately helps arrange a solution that allows Billie to start anew.

Set against the backdrop of a crime-ridden, rain-drenched city, Beyond the Scent of Sugar explores the intoxicating pull of desire, the complexity of loving someone battling addiction, and the difficult journey of finding self-worth in the aftermath of heartbreak. Billie must ultimately decide whether the moments of intense connection with Marti are worth the inevitable pain that follows, and whether she can love someone who may never be fully present.

Buy Beyond the Scent of Sugar online, or at your local bookstore. And check out the subsequent Marti Starova Erotic Thriller series, starting with Drowning in Broad Daylight.

Beyond the Scent of Sugar: A Memoir by Billie River – Excerpt

INTRODUCTION

I met Martina Starova–Marti–in the spring of ‘49. I was in my bakery when a middle-aged man came scurrying in. It was pouring rain, so everyone was scurrying in. He headed right for a table in the back. There were only 5 tables–it’s a bakery after all. He came in, sat down and then, maybe 10 seconds later, Marti came in.

Strike that.

Marti blasted in. The door slammed open, and she raced in, bringing the storm with her. I don’t think she touched the floor, but just flew. The man stood up to flee. She made a flying tackle. Both ended up hitting my window and the cracking sound was louder than the thunder. Then onto the floor, grunting and screaming and cursing.

Marti was punching him, and he was punching Marti. I could see she had a gun–or at least a holster–and I wondered why she didn’t just shoot him. By the time that thought was in my head and I’d reached for my phone to call the police, Marti was on her feet. She snatched a chair and swung, hitting him hard. The chair broke, of course–it was just cheap plasprint after all. He swung a table in return, then launched her into a display case. Shards of glass and blood went everywhere.

But it didn’t stop her. I’ve since found out nothing stops her. She tackled him again, sending them both right through another of my windows, and out into the street. Only now did everyone else arrive. And by everyone else I mean uniformed police and detectives in cop cars with wailing sirens. It surprised me when they arrested him, not her. I mean, this normal guy comes in, followed by a wild woman who attacked him. Right?

Nothing is as it seems with Marti. It turned out he had murdered a couple and kidnapped their five-year-old daughter. The police had tracked him down and he had somehow slipped through their perimeter. He chose my bakery to hide in, and he failed.

She came back into the shop, bloodied and breathless, with Damien Kane, her partner. He was shouting at her for being an irresponsible asshole. She was laughing at him for being a fat fuck. Their words, not mine. By then, all of my customers had fled, and the rain was blowing in.

I will never forget that surge of electricity when she first looked me in the eye. She has a sexiness, a sexual magnetism, that is undeniable. This in spite of the fact she was bleeding from a cut over her eye and blood coated her lips. I find that bruised-and-bloodied look to be repulsive. But somehow, she made it work for her.

Marti offered me her business card–Martina Starova, Falls City Police, Homicide Division, Detective First Class. She said to call her and she would help me navigate the administrative systems to get reimbursed for the damage. Then she asked for a danish. All I could do was wordlessly point to the shattered display case and the glass-covered danishes.

She said she’d take a raspberry danish. She even said please, but I think that was so she could throw her killer smile at me. I told her I couldn’t sell them, and she said she’d take it for free. I said they were covered in glass, and she asked if there was “one under the counter or something.” Unbelievable.

Then Marti walked behind the display case, looked over the food, and picked a raspberry danish, and shook it off. She took a big bite and screamed, clutching her mouth. I ran over to her, grabbing her face to see what the damage was. Marti just laughed and said, “Psych! Just kidding.” Joking like a damned 10-year-old.

Marti made a quick phone call before leaving. Within half an hour, a repair truck pulled up with some enormous pieces of plywood. They sealed my windows and said someone would be in touch about everything else. They said don’t bother calling my insurance company.

I never called her, but I never had to. The next day, Falls City employees were swarming over my bakery. Glass replaced, floors cleaned and sterilized, new furniture, even nicer display cases installed. I got a $5,000 check to cover food and incidentals.

Marti made one hell of an impression on me. I followed the news for a couple of days. She was praised for her pursuit and arrest of that man.

She came by every once in a while for a danish until she stopped coming by. I didn’t see her for four years, though I hadn’t forgotten her.

I don’t think anyone can forget Marti.

CHAPTER ONE

It was raining. Of course. I hadn’t heard from Marti for four years. Those were her four years in hell, which have nothing to do with me. Except the aftermath. It’s like moving into a house after the flood waters have receded. You can’t be sure how deep the damage goes, but you go in knowing it won’t be perfect.

Marti had come by the bakery out of the blue. I almost fainted. I hadn’t thought it possible, but she looked wilder and more erotic. Her black hair framed her face like a mane. Where once she had been a young lion, now she was a mature beast with battle scars and street wisdom. She had become a king of the jungle.

She left the police services and became a private investigator.

She had a hungry smile, and I wasn’t sure if she wanted food or me. But she asked for a danish, and when I asked if she wanted raspberry, her eyes lit up. I told her to grab a seat and I’d bring it to her. Crazy as it sounds, her face softened. Like no one had done anything kind for her in a long time.

I don’t think she actually likes raspberry danish, I think she just likes eating it. And I came up with this theory when I brought her the danish. Marti asked me to join her when I put the plate down. Ask is the wrong word. I was compelled in the nicest way possible. I sat down, and her eyes focused on mine, and I couldn’t look away. Then she tore a piece from the danish and slipped it into her mouth. I watched her lick the glaze off her fingers. Never have I ever seen such pleasure in a public place. She dipped her finger into the raspberry and offered it to me. I couldn’t stop my mouth from opening, from closing my lips around her, from sucking and licking. I could see she was getting aroused. I certainly was. And when I finally released her finger, she put it in her own mouth. I shivered. She ripped another piece off, stretching the pastry between her fingers before it came apart. I almost came apart. The overhead light dimmed, I swear.

She leaned over and brought the danish to my lips. I have eaten more bites of danish than I care to admit. Tasting is part of baking. But this wasn’t just a bite of danish. This was a sticky, sweet, gooey nugget in my mouth. She watched me as I took it from her fingers, and she licked them clean.

“I’m going to kiss you.” She was so confident. It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact. She very purposefully stood up and came around to my side of the table. My eyes never left her. I just looked up and felt my breath. She bent down and paused, looking into my eyes. Whatever she was searching for, she must have found. I felt a shock go through me, from her lips to my pussy, shooting straight down when she kissed me.

She smelled of cigarettes and booze, two things I don’t like. Didn’t like. Marti somehow made it seem earthy, musky. Like sex. No. Like lust. I heard the creak of her leather jacket as she reached for my chin. She was gentle as she raised my head a little more and kissed me again, harder. Suddenly I could smell the leather where I hadn’t before. It mingled and mixed with her aroma, a personal perfume signature that now included raspberry danish and desire.

With each kiss, she pressed a little harder. And with each kiss, I got a bigger and bigger shock through my body. When her fingers moved and her thumb stroked my cheek, a lightning bolt shot through me and my pussy got wet. I remember thinking, is this what it’s like to black out from pleasure? I moaned when she released me, and I leaned forward to offer myself to her again. But she sat down again. And she squeezed and pulled the danish again and I almost fainted when she ate it.

I was too light-headed to stand, so I remained there. Watching her lick and chew and feast. It felt like I was watching her eat me. She complimented me on my baking skills. I said it was nothing special. “It is to me,” she said. As she put the last piece into her mouth, she asked me to meet her on Wednesday at 10pm at the Findlay on Jacob. I nodded, and she stood up. As I hoped, she kissed me one last time and walked out. I was grateful for the apron I was wearing because I was certain my nipples were hard and, quite possibly, my dress was wet.

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