The Rumble and the Glory (Sacred Trinity Book 1), page 1
Copyright ©2024 by JA Huss
ISBN: 978-1-957277-18-9
No part of this book may be reproduced or resold in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the authors’ imaginations or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Edited by RJ Locksley
Cover Design by JA Huss
CONTENTS
About the Book
Chapter 1 - Lowyn
Chapter 2 - Collin
Chapter 3 - Lowyn
Chapter 4 - Collin
Chapter 5 - Lowyn
Chapter 6 - Collin
Chapter 7 - Lowyn
Chapter 8 - Collin
Chapter 9 - Lowyn
Chapter 10 - Collin
Chapter 11 - Lowyn
Chapter 12 - Collin
Chapter 13 - Lowyn
Chapter 14 - Collin
Chapter 15 - Lowyn
Chapter 16 - Collin
Chapter 17 - Lowyn
Chapter 18 - Collin
Chapter 19 - Lowyn
Chapter 20 - Collin
Chapter 21 - Lowyn
Chapter 22 - Collin
Chapter 23 - Lowyn
Chapter 24 - Collin
Chapter 25 - Lowyn
Chapter 26 - Collin
Chapter 27 - Lowyn
Chapter 28 - Collin
Chapter 29 - Lowyn
Chapter 30 - Collin
Chapter 31 - Lowyn
Chapter 32 - Collin
Chapter 33 - Lowyn
Chapter 34 - Collin
Chapter 35 - Lowyn
Epilogue - Collin
End of Book Shit
About the Author
Collin Creed is a killer. But he's Lowyn's killer. And after a twelve-year separation, she wants him back.
Deep in the hills of West Virginia, three small towns have found a way to flourish in the face of extreme poverty. Disciple runs a side-show tent revival that brings in millions of dollars a year. Bishop flaunts traditional ways in the vein of Colonial Williamsburg, luring weary city people to the slow-living lifestyle. And Revenant offers them an experience of sin filled with tattooed bikers and live-music dive bars.
It’s a sacred trinity that worships the almighty dollar and everyone plays their role like a well-trained Broadway actor.
But these hills have secrets, and so do the people.
Twelve years ago, when he was just eighteen and dreaming of a future with his high school sweetheart, Collin Creed learned something about himself. Something so disturbing he left Disciple to join the Marines and didn’t once look back. But all that came to a screeching halt with the congressional hearings, forcing Collin to return home and rebuild his black-ops empire brick by brick.
Lowyn McBride’s heart broke when Collin shut her out and left town without an explanation just as they were getting ready to start their adult lives together. The death of her mother the following year was a make-or-break moment and Lowyn rose to the occasion, giving up her university education to parent her younger sister while building an empire of her own as a specialty antiques dealer.
Anger and desire, guilt and shame—the return of the enigmatic Collin Creed ignites the town and sparks an explosion of emotions inside Lowyn. But he’s not the only one with a secret in his past. Lowyn has always played the good girl to Collin’s bad-boy reputation. But it turns out—she’s just like everyone else up in these hills—not as wholesome and pure as she looks.
The Rumble and the Glory is a cinematic and spicy small-town secret, second-chance romance wrapped up in a cloak of mystery and suspense. It honors the themes of found family, redemptive anti-hero, and is filled with bigger-than-life, morally-grey characters against a backdrop of deceit and deception.
The worst thing about depravity isn’t the threat of hell, it’s the hangover.
My head is poundin’ as I lie in bed for just one more second. My eyes are crusted over and opening them up is gonna be a process. So I just stay still, letting my mind remain blank for a few more seconds. Maybe I’ll even fall back asleep.
It’s not like I have to work today. For me, this day right here is a holiday. A sacred day.
Well, maybe sacred is a tick too far, but at the very least the Day After is always a quiet day for me. A time to reflect on my mama and how much I miss her.
That’s what last night was about.
I don’t make a habit of getting drunk. In fact, I do it exactly once a year. So this headache of mine, though annoying, isn’t familiar enough to be distressing.
Besides, this bed is warm, and the covers feel good, so I let out a small sigh, enjoying the little bit of time I have left here in the in-between, before life starts back up again.
In the same moment that my sigh is leaving my body, there’s another sigh behind me.
My eyelids fly open and all the little crusties that should’ve been massaged slowly with gentle fingertips just split apart without a bit of fanfare.
The first thing I see is the sexy face of young Jim Morrison in black and white staring out at me with a rock-god expression like he’s about to take over the world. And while I study that sexy face a very heavy, very strong arm glides over my waist and pulls me close.
Oh, no.
Oh, no, sir, this is not happening. I did not bring the one-night stand home with me last night. I did not! Immediately my mind is racing, trying to put all the pieces of what happened back into some kind of coherent order.
Woke up, went to work, blah, blah, blah. Bryn and I had lunch and, of course, she tried to talk me out of what came next—which was my annual ‘get drunk day,’ in honor of our mama, of course.
See, our mama died when I was nineteen and Bryn was seventeen and yesterday was Mama’s birthday. Some people remember lost loved ones on ‘the day,’ as in the death day. But not me. That day can go to hell. That day sucked.
But Mama’s birthday was always a happy time for us. It was a day when Bryn and I would take care of her instead of her taking care of us. And she would let us do that. She would let us make her meals that day, and do her laundry, and pick out her clothes, and bake her a cake.
If it was a school day, we got the day off because we would go into work for Mama. She ran the flea market right on the edge of town, just this side of Disciple. She would go in with us, of course, but Bryn and I took over that day and we greeted and cared for the customers who wandered in from outside places.
I was always someone else on those birthdays. Louder than my normal self. Carefree like a butterfly on a summer day. And spontaneous, like anticipation was my motor and I was just lookin’ for a reason to press my foot on the gas.
And it was all that much more special because in my everyday life I am nothing like that at all. I’m quiet, and careful, and deliberate.
Now that she’s gone, this is how I honor her. Not the one-night-stand thing, though that is part of my be-more-spontaneous plan. It’s not the purpose of the letting go, just the end result. And if I’m being honest, if I didn’t give myself permission to let go once a year, I might be in a dry spell something terrible as far as sex goes.
No, I honor her by being the girl I was on her birthdays. Because Mama noticed how different I was this one day a year. How much I laughed and smiled on those birthdays of hers. How I let go of the burden I felt to be good.
On this one day every year I am Lowyn the Laughing. Lowyn the Lighthearted. Lowyn the Lover. In other words, I’m not Lowyn the Lonely, or Lowyn the Laborious, or Lowyn the Leftover.
Which is a harsh way to characterize myself, I do realize this, but why fight it? It’s sorta true. Because the other three -hundred and sixty-four days of the year I am a responsible business owner. I am goal- oriented. I am diligent, and hardworking, and nonconfrontational. I am in control one -hundred percent of the time.
Control works for me. Schedules work for me. Ten-year plans, exceeding expectations, and organized growth all work for me. I thrive in this environment.
And I don’t always throw so much caution to the wind on Mama’s birthday. Some years, if I have a steady boyfriend, I don’t have a one-night stand at all.
But if I’m being honest with myself—and what’s the point of having a rolling internal monologue if you’re not gonna be honest?—I have noticed over the years that I tend to break things off about a month prior to the Day.
Not that I want a one-night stand. Not particularly. It’s just… what is the point of pointless dating? I mean, a girl knows if he’s ‘the one.’ You just know. And I would not want to skip my one day of giving Mama the version of me she liked best for some random nobody who barely passed the Valentine’s Day test and is never gonna make it to Christmas.
My mama loved me for the studious, serious overachiever I was. She did. I know she did. But when I would let go, let my hair down and just flow, I saw the way she looked at me. Like this was the girl she knew I was.
I try to be that all the time, but I’m just not her.
Even on the Day I’m mostly pretending to be this girl. If Mama’s up in some spiritual realm looking down on me, then I want her to see me as the
However… it is not like me to bring the one-night stand home.
Granted, this is the ten-year anniversary birthday of Mama being gone, so… perhaps I got a little overzealous?
I reach up and push some hair out of my eyes, gently rubbing the crusties so I can see better. I let out a long breath. Who was it? Who is in bed next to me?
Please, I silently beg. Please, if there is a God above, and if you care about me at all—please, please, please do not let the man in bed with me be Grimm.
Please.
This is a small town. In fact, the entire Trinity area is small-town 101. I grew up with everyone in my dating pool and there are only so many single men to go around, one of them being Jameson Grimm.
But I don’t get drunk in Disciple. No. No, no, no. That’s a big fat no. I go over to Bishop. Which is the unlikely choice given my nearby options include the small town of Revenant, but I’m not ready for that kind of letting loose.
So Bishop it is.
I get a room there at the Bishop Inn where my sister, Bryn, works as a chef, and then I walk into the center of town and get drunk at the Pineapple Pub. I drink, I dance, I might even karaoke. And then I take a man—most years, it’s a tourist—back to my room at the inn, have a lovely romp in the sack, then wake up and go home. Alone.
Grimm doesn’t care for Bishop. His first choice for a night out is typically Disciple, but he would go drinkin’ in Revenant long before he’d go to Bishop. So after giving myself this common-sense pep talk, I let out a breath of relief because I have a better than reasonable chance that the man in bed with me is not Grimm.
My once-a-year celebration is as safe as a plan as one can make when letting loose to drown sorrows that are not sorrows, but only because you refuse to give in to the idea that you are the kind of person who drowns her sorrows.
Or… has them.
In addition to being goal-oriented and fastidiously organized, I’m also perpetually optimistic. Bryn calls it my worst fault. Says I hide behind rose-colored glasses. Literally. She tells me this all the time. And my response, every time—and with a perpetually optimistic smile—is that I can live with it. Rose-colored glasses are right up my alley. Also literally. Because my go-to sunglasses are those round John Lennon ones, tinted rose.
It makes sense in the world of me.
However… it is curious that I didn’t stay in the room at the inn. Surely Bryn was babysitting me. That’s kind of her job. So… how did I get home?
Must’ve been the guy.
OK, Lowyn. It’s time to turn and see who he is. This is the Day After now and while you might be hungover, and Mama’s birthday is a holiday so you won’t be going into work, reality is something you face, not hide from.
I grab the covers and pull them up to my chest so I don’t flash him accidentally when I turn, but this is when I realize I’m not naked.
Hmm. In fact—I wiggle my toes—I’ve still got my boots on.
And my pants.
What the hell happened last night?
I mean, I didn’t even get laid?
I turn over and study the man in bed next to me.
He’s massive. Like broad massive. And fit. He, unlike me, is not fully dressed and I can see all the hills and valleys of his muscular back, shoulders and biceps. But he’s got his head tucked under the pillow so I can’t see his face.
One good thing—this is not Jameson Grimm. Grimm has dark hair and the hair peeking out from under the pillow is something between blond and brown.
Plus, this man has tattoos. Kind of a big one that covers the shoulder I can see. Something military, I think—an eagle, and one of those shield things they put on badges or patches. Inside the shield, in neat thin-line lettering, is the word ‘Silence.’
Weird.
But not important. I need to get this guy out of here. I can’t start my day with last night’s… whatever. He’s still got one arm around my waist, but it’s not tight. So I just slip it off me, sneak out of bed, and tiptoe out of the bedroom.
I close the bedroom door behind me, sighing with relief that he didn’t wake up, then hit the bathroom. When I come out, I’ve got my boots in my hand and I take them over to the front door and put them in their cubby.
My foyer is a testament to order. Every pair of boots, sneakers, and flip-flops has their place in a cubby. Every coat has a hook to hang on. Every pair of gloves, every scarf, every hat has a basket to live in on the long maple bench and there are two cupboards on either side that hold anything that is too ugly to display.
I’m a freak about organization and presentation. It’s everything. Having an ordered home with pretty things on display just makes me feel good even when my head is pounding with a Day After hangover.
I hit the kitchen for vitamin C and coffee. Orange juice first, then a steaming cup of Sexy Cinnamon with a splash of cinnamon-vanilla creamer.
I take that first sip leaning against the counter and sigh as I stare up at my disgustingly cheerful kitchen.
My cabinets are old—like pretty much everything in this house—but they have been brought back to life with lots of sanding, and paint, and love. My favorite color is sea-foam green, so that’s the color I painted the cabinets. There is a splash of tangerine orange here and there—curtains, dishtowels, bowls—to make it all pop and all of this looks pretty fun contrasted with the dark walnut butcher block counters. The floor is also walnut, wide planks that were harvested a hundred years ago. I salvaged them from a house three hours away in Kentucky and since my house is modest in size, I was able to do the entire first floor with that wood.
I love this place. It’s not the biggest house in Disciple, but it’s definitely the most loved, at least in my opinion. Our town is cute. The homes in Disciple were all built right around the same time about a hundred years ago. They all started out pretty much the same—Craftsman-style—but over the years people have customized them. Most have two floors, but some have three now. The paint colors change every once in a while. My house is not sea-foam green on the outside, but it’s as close as you can get without being obnoxious. More of a sage, I guess. The porch is the best thing about this house. It’s all cobblestone with cedar trusses and beams. In fact, all the trim and accents on the outside of the house are cedar and cobblestone. It looks like something out of a woodland fairytale and it’s all just so lovely, I sigh every night when I get home.
To say that I am a vintage girl would be an understatement. It’s literally my life because I own McBooms, a retro antique shop that was made world famous when Jet Shadows, host of Jet’s Junk on that one cable channel we all love, came to my store and did a whole episode. Then he came back! Three times over the next two years.
One of those years—mmm. I take a sip of coffee and chuckle—he was my one-night stand for the Day. That was fun.
I look over at my bedroom door and wonder if that’s Jet in there. But no. Jet doesn’t have tattoos. Plus, we haven’t talked in a couple years now. He got engaged, then broke it off, then married the woman in Vegas. He called me that night to tell me goodbye and his life was over and that he secretly loved me. He’s kind of a dramatic guy.
I haven’t heard from him since.
It’s not Jet and it’s not Grimm. So who cares? I’ll wake him up in a few minutes and kick him out and then get on with my life.
I look out my window as I sip the coffee. It’s a nice spring day. The leaves started coming back on the trees a couple weeks ago and even though there are still a few gaps on the hills, they will be an almost impenetrable cover of green in just another week or two. April in West Virginia is extraordinary.
When evaluating one’s life, and looking down at a diagram where chaos lives on one side of the line and perfection lives on the other, I’m solidly in perfection territory. Business owner, homeowner, same friends since childhood. It’s all pretty nice, and organized, and in order. But becoming an adult started off kinda rough in my case.
Losing our mama was an unexpected blow and it completely derailed my college career and dreams of being a veterinarian. I came home from West Virginia University to take care of Bryn—who isn’t the kind of girl who normally needs taking care of—and, well, I never left Disciple again. Not in the literal sense, of course. I leave town all the time for my picking adventures. I do that one week a month. This week, in fact.
