Sia Read online

  Copyright © 2013 Josh Grayson

  Published by Josh Grayson

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form or binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Cover Photography: Audrey Ruth Photography

  Cover Design:Mayhem Cover Creations

  Interior Formatting:: Mayhem Cover Creations

  Author Photography: by Audrey Ruth Photography

  Book Editing: Genevieve Graham, Jennifer Read Hawthorne, Autumn J. Conley, Susan Helen Gottfried, and Marti Lynch.

  ISBN: 0-9898690-0-8

  ISBN : 978-0-9898690-0-3

  PRAISE FOR SIA

  “A compelling read full of intrigue, romance, and lots of surprises. I couldn’t wait to see what happened next! Beautiful and inspiring.” –Jennifer Read Hawthorne, #1 New York Times bestselling author

  “Uplifting and fast paced. I enjoyed reading about Sia’s journey of discovery.” –Victorine E. Lieske, New York Times bestselling author

  “A heartwarming, sometimes tear jerking story that reignites one’s faith in humanity. An excellent debut!” –Alexia Purdy, Bestselling author

  “This is a fun, sweet, fairy-tale of a book! It’s a tale of romance, redemption, and about learning what really matters in life.” –I Am A Reader, Not A Writer

  “I felt like I was reading a script for a movie, the plot is fantastic and the characters are great, there’s a little of humor as well as tragic situations.” –Bookish Randomness

  “Sia would be an excellent novel for the Disney Company to adapt for film. Hers is a story of cruelty and kindness, pain and redemption and ultimately of making the world in which you live a better place.” –Rabid Readers

  “I’d highly recommend Sia. You can’t go wrong with this book.” –The Mad Reviewer

  “It delivered on all fronts: it’s well written, compelling, well conceived and structured, and...joy of all joys, immaculately edited.” –Cath ‘n’ Kindle Book Reviews

  DEDICATION

  For my family

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First and foremost, I’d like to acknowledge my editors: Genevieve Graham, Jennifer Read Hawthorne, Autumn J. Conley, Susan Helene Gottfried, and Marti Lynch. I couldn’t have asked for a better team. Thank you for all the wisdom, insight, and guidance you provided me during the early stages of this book. I am also deeply indebted to all the amazing reviewers and book bloggers who took a chance on Sia and recommended it to readers. You didn’t just give me reviews, you gave me hope. Something I truly needed. Above all, I must give a huge thanks to my friends and family. Your encouragement kept pushing me forward, and your kind words kept my dream alive.

  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

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  It’s a definite touch on my cheek. I sit up and flick a fly from my face. The sudden movement leaves me dizzy. Waiting for balance to return, I brace myself against the bench. After a moment of stillness, I blink into the beautiful afternoon.

  Sunshine blazes through the park, streaming in ribbons of green and gold between blossoming trees. It’s spring, and cheery birds dart from branch to branch, playing tag. A couple of joggers run by. They look straight ahead, hearing nothing but what’s coming from their earbuds. Just like the small white pair jammed in my own ears.

  I frown, confused. Why does the idea of my own headphones feel so strange? I pluck them out and follow the wire to the iPod strapped to my arm. The screen says Sia’s Playlist.

  I look back up and scan the park, searching for a landmark. I recognize nothing. Where am I? Nothing about the park looks familiar. The bench where I sit, freshly painted and warmed by the sun, looks foreign. I study the forest around me, noticing the scattering of fruit trees dwarfed by oaks, the small pond a few feet away, the winding jogging trail. Everything around me is strange. In fact . . .

  I look down and pinch the soft Lycra material of my jogging outfit. Good thing the day is so warm because I’m wearing only a pair of skimpy shorts and a tiny top. Both are a vibrant pink—but I don’t recognize them. I don’t recognize my bright white runners, either. How can I not know my own clothes? I frown back at the trees, my head cocked to the side. Obviously the clothes are mine because I’m wearing them. But . . .

  I bend down and check under and around the bench, but I don’t see a purse anywhere. Of course, it could have been stolen since I have no idea how long I’ve been here. Still, it doesn't answer any other questions. How did I get here? Why was I—

  Comprehension dawns, and all the blood leaves my head in a rush. I start to shake. No matter what question I ask, the answers all point in one horrifying direction.

  I have no idea who I am.

  The iPod is my only clue. Sia, it says. I’ve never heard that name before, but I assume it’s mine. Why would I be carrying around someone else’s playlist?

  “This isn’t happening,” I whisper, calling up the playlist. Maybe I’ll find answers within the list of songs. No such luck. All I discover is that I’m a fan of pop music. Really cheesy pop.

  My fingertips pulse with adrenaline and I’m close to hyperventilating. When I stand, my knees wobble slightly, but I recover and walk to a nearby pond. The water is the complete opposite of what I’m feeling. Its surface is calm, with sunlight glittering off it like diamonds. I squat at the water’s edge and lean over, examining the reflection of a perfect stranger.

  I run my fingers over the top of my head. My long blonde hair is pulled back—to keep the hair out of my eyes while running, I guess. Curious, I smile at the water and am pleased to see that I’m an attractive girl. I have large blue eyes and perfect teeth. I’m not sure how old I am, though. I look young enough be a high school senior. Or maybe a college student. If that’s so, where do I go to school? I sit back on the cool spring grass and sigh, shaking my head. School? I can’t even remember my name. Why am I worrying about school?

  A bike whizzes by, followed by two more joggers. I toy with the idea of asking one of the passersby for direct
ions. At least for the name of the park. That might make something in my memory click. But the thought of approaching a stranger intimidates me. How do I know they won’t hurt me? I get to my feet when a police car cruises along. Then I stop. A sudden stab of terror immobilizes me, and my heart starts pounding uncontrollably.

  Don’t.

  An order from the recesses of my chaotic mind.

  A warning.

  What if they’re already looking for me for the wrong reason? What if I’m a criminal? A drug dealer? A murderer? What if I had some something horrific before losing my memory?

  Okay, maybe I’m being paranoid. I doubt many murderers run around in bright pink. But you never know. I could easily have done something illegal without knowing. No. I won't ask the police. Not until I remember more about my past.

  Immediately, my heart calms with this decision—it has to be the right one.

  My stomach growls, and I make yet another unpleasant discovery. I have no money. No ID, no cash, nothing.

  “Hey,” comes a voice. “You okay?”

  It’s a trio of teenage boys. They wear sleeveless tops and baggy shorts. The way they stroll toward me sends a chill down my spine. I have a feeling this guy’s concern isn’t all that sincere.

  “I’m fine, thanks,” I mutter, then start walking away.

  “Where you going, baby? Don’t you wanna party?”

  They’ve picked up their pace and now move like a pack of wolves, the leader flanked by the others.

  “No thanks,” I fling back over my shoulder. I need to remain calm. I don’t want these guys to think I’m afraid, or they might take advantage of that weakness. And from the looks on their faces and the tattoos on their large biceps, I doubt they'll think twice about taking advantage of any weakness.

  “Come on, baby,” the third one croons.

  I’m in a jogging suit, I remember. Time to use it. I may have nothing else, but at least I have good shoes. The boys don’t bother running after me, though they do hoot a bunch of suggestions having to do with the view. Doesn't matter. I keep running.

  It’s still afternoon, so I’m running in the sunshine. It feels good, and I start thinking that maybe I should keep going, head into the city. Here in the park, I can only chat with squirrels and birds, which won’t answer any of my questions. Self-conscious in my little pink outfit, I keep running along a tree-lined road called Stadium Way. I follow it toward the looming black skyscrapers in the distance.

  Finally, I learn where I am when I jog past a huge outdoor sports arena. Its big blue sign declares, The Los Angeles Dodgers welcome you to Dodger Stadium. Another sign informs me of the state—California, then. That explains the warm breeze and healthy rows of palm trees lining the street. Beyond all this, the air carries the salty tang of the sea, but so far, I can mostly smell smog. Ugh. The stink intensifies as I approach the city.

  The road starts to veer back toward the park at one point, so I slow to a walk and follow the highway instead. My plan is to walk beside it as far as I can, hoping the cars will lead me in. Traffic’s bad around here. At some points, it feels as if I’m walking faster than the cars are going. Cars and trucks—some of which are obviously expensive luxury vehicles—putter down the crowded roads, their drivers on cell phones or texting on their laps. One driver is actually brushing his teeth, then rinsing and spitting out the window. It’s amazing nobody drives into anybody.

  After an hour or so, I wander upon a more populated road called Figueroa Street. The buildings climb taller as I reach downtown, and the noise gets louder with every block. Yellow cabs hover like bees around a hive. Given the large crowds hailing them, I imagine they’re making lots of honey. I pause outside the shiny, mirrored turrets of the Westin Bonaventure Hotel, noticing the architecture. If it’s this impressive on the outside, it must be incredible inside. Especially the restaurant, I think, and my empty stomach gurgles in agreement. I toy with the idea of going in, but I reconsider when a well-dressed couple exits and scowls at me.

  I have to get something to eat. I’m dizzy from hunger and exertion, and my head’s starting to pound. I turn away from the hotel and keep on walking.

  The noise and the action of the city is wild, coming at me from all directions. Outside a crowded outdoor plaza, the street is lined with trucks advertising dining choices—the aromas drifting past are killing me. I stare at one truck, its side painted like a green dinosaur, and breathe in the fried onion smell. The name of the traveling restaurant is Me So Hungry.

  I snort, lacking the energy to give it a good laugh. “Sounds just about right,” I mutter. The truck's brightly painted menu advertises burgers, fries, chicken . . . God, what I’d do for a bite of something right now. Just about anything. I can’t hold in a little moan, and I press my hand against my stomach to reassure it.

  Then a hand grips my shoulder. With a gasp, I whirl around, panicked.

  Apparently, I’m not alone.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Startled, I look up into the dark eyes of a smiling man. He looks about ten years older than I am. He’s dressed in a smart suit with a clean shirt and tie, and his hair is combed neatly back.

  “Sorry,” he says warmly. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” He motions at the menu. “I just wanted to suggest that you try the teriyaki burrito. It’ll change your life.”

  I relax. “I’m afraid I can’t. I, uh . . . left my wallet at home.”

  His eyes travel over my body, and I instinctively cross my arms over my chest. But instead of being rude, he gives me a small, courteous bow. “From the looks of it, you didn’t have any place to carry your wallet, huh?”

  I pretend to read the painted words again. “No.”

  “Well, it’s your lucky day. My name’s Bill, and I’d like to buy you a little supper.”

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t accept that,” I say, even though I could. I absolutely could.

  “Please. I try to do one good deed a day. And I want this to be it.”

  I glance back at him and swallow hard. He’s clean and handsome. His smile, bright under a thick black moustache, seems genuine.

  My stomach begs me to accept his offer, pummeling me with cramps.

  “Really. It’s no problem,” he says, giving me a friendly wink. “I hate eating alone anyway.”

  Something clangs inside the truck, and a fresh whiff of fried onions floods the air. The temptation is too much. I’m going for it. If I don’t eat soon, I’ll probably die of hunger anyway.

  “Well, if you insist,” I say, giving him a sheepish grin. “Thank you.”

  “Beef or chicken?”

  Just this question floods my mouth with saliva. “Chicken, please.”

  The neat, hot package fills my hands. I don’t even need to unwrap it to know it’s delicious. I turn, looking for a place to sit, but the prospects of finding a table are bleak. They all look full; even the eating area farther in the mall is crowded. I eye the sidewalk skeptically, but Bill motions to his car. The shiny black Cadillac is parked behind the truck.

  “Let’s eat there,” he says.

  I hesitate until I note the pretty, young girl sitting in the back seat. She’s wearing a yellow sundress and eating ice cream.

  “That’s my niece,” Bill explains. “I’m taking her to the mall. Uncle of the year, right here.” He laughs at himself.

  She meets my gaze, offering a polite wave. It immediately sets my fears at ease. I decide to go in. They seem like a nice enough family, and I'm weak with hunger and exhausted from my long, dazed, trek into town. Besides, I can't take the throbbing pain in my feet anymore. I'm dying to sit in something comfortable.

  “Okay,” I tell Bill.

  I climb into the car and sink into luscious black leather. It smells new and sighs under my weight.

  He turns to his niece. “Beth, this is . . .”

  “Sia,” I say.

  She smiles widely. “Nice to meet you, Sia.” Suddenly, her cell phone rings. Beth’s face lights up. “It’s my cr
ush, Derek! Uncle Billy, can I take this call outside? I’ll be quick. Pleeease?”

  “Sure, honey,” Bill says. “Just stay close to the car.”

  She squeals happily, then steps out onto the sidewalk. Once she closes the door, Bill starts unwrapping his food, and I follow suit.

  I’ve barely got it opened when I bite in. My eyes close with delight.

  “This is delicious,” I say, still chewing. “Thank you so much.”

  “Don’t mention it. I like helping people when I can.”

  A violent rap song, the screaming lyrics accompanied by a loud, repetitive drum beat, suddenly fills the air. Its booming bass vibrates right through from the car beside us.

  “Close the door,” Bill says. “Let’s have some real music.”

  I’m more than happy to comply, and when Bill switches on some vaguely familiar classical music, I lean back, relaxing. “That’s nice,” I say.

  “Vivaldi,” he informs me, his mouth partially full. “Good for the soul.”

  I close my eyes, just listening, but Bill apparently wants to talk. I’m kind of disappointed about that because I’d like to lose myself in this yummy food and soothing music. But he’s determined—and he did buy me dinner, after all.

  “So? What’s your story?”

  My expression doesn’t change, but I’m instantly on guard. “I don’t really have one.”

  “Come on. Sure you do. You don’t look like a typical street kid, dressed like that. How’d you end up here? You a recent runaway?”

  I hesitate. Am I? I have no idea. I settle for, “Something like that.”

  Bill seems satisfied. “Yeah. Most girls are. Were your parents abusive?”

  The question throws me a little. Maybe I was abused. Maybe that’s why I lost my memory, due to a blow to the head. But I have no bruises as far as I can see. “It’s complicated. I’d rather not talk about that.”