King of the Block Trilogy

  King of the Block Book 1

  King of the Block Book 2

  King of the Block Book 3

  Quentin Kilgore, Julia Moonie

  Copyright © [Year of First Publication] by [Author or Pen Name]

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  Contents

  King of the Block Book 1

  King of the Block Book 2

  King of the Block Book 3

  King of the Block Book 1

  Quentin Kilgore, Julia Moonie

  Copyright © 2025 by Quentin Kilgore and Julia Moonie

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  Contents

  1. Chapter 1

  2. Chapter 2

  3. Chapter 3

  4. Chapter 4

  5. Chapter 5

  6. Chapter 6

  7. Chapter 7

  8. Chapter 8

  9. Chapter 9

  10. Chapter 10

  11. Chapter 11

  12. Chapter 12

  13. Chapter 13

  14. Chapter 14

  15. Chapter 15

  16. Chapter 16

  17. Chapter 17

  18. Chapter 18

  19. Chapter 19

  20. Chapter 20

  21. Chapter 21

  22. Chapter 22

  23. Chapter 23

  24. Chapter 24

  25. Chapter 25

  26. Chapter 26

  27. Chapter 27

  28. Chapter 28

  29. Chapter 29

  30. Chapter 30

  31. Chapter 31

  32. Chapter 32

  33. Chapter 33

  34. Chapter 34

  35. Chapter 35

  More

  Further reading

  Chapter one

  The sign flashed by, almost escaping my notice, but I caught a half-glimpse.

  “Was that Riverdale?” I grunted, pressing my foot on the brake. “I think it was.”

  I was completely alone in my car, but I’d begun talking to myself somewhere around hour seven of my drive. And that was four hours ago. The AC had finally quit too, and I could feel drops of sweat running down under my T-shirt.

  “Should probably stop for a rest, in any case,” I noted as the car rolled to a stop on the two-lane highway. The late-summer heat rippled in the air off the pavement.

  I caught my reflection in the rearview—bloodshot blue eyes, disheveled brown hair, and stubble covering my square jaw. But it wasn’t just from the drive. This was what I always looked like. Seven years of non-stop work will do that.

  Not that I ever complained about it. I was building a business from scratch. I expected it to be a struggle. But I’d made up my mind from the start: I was going to work like hell until I got there.

  And that was exactly what I did. It just meant having to be poor for a long time, and having to sacrifice my social life—along with a chunk of my sanity.

  Other things added to the stress. My apartment was more like an interrogation chamber than a living space. Traffic noise blared at all hours. Glaring lights shone through my windows at night.

  I also had a painful breakup with the girl I thought I was going to marry. It came at the worst possible time, when I was spending long nights debugging code and sleeping in the office.

  But I just could not allow the heartbreak distract me—couldn’t even let myself process it. Not when so much of our success or failure rested on my shoulders.

  But all that was behind me now. Despite my challenges, I’d functioned on autopilot, powering through each day. We grew steadily, and then in the last few months, my team had a breakthrough. Our app—my app, that I’d built from the ground up—started seeing huge increases in downloads.

  When the offer to sell came, I didn’t hesitate. The payout wasn’t going to make me a tech billionaire, but it was enough that I wouldn’t have to worry about money again, provided I invested properly.

  Within the last several weeks, I’d closed the deal, ended my apartment lease, and gotten rid of my furniture. My only remaining belongings were several boxes of books. I stored them at my parents’ house.

  And then, I left.

  With no other vehicles in sight on the highway, I easily turned around and headed back towards the turnoff.

  Farmers’ fields stretched out on one side, giant marshmallow-shaped hay bales stacked high. In the distance, a range of friendly mountains stood against the stark blue sky.

  It looked like a painting.

  On my other side, rows of poplar trees swayed dreamily.

  The road into Riverdale was barely big enough for two cars to pass each other—not that there were any other cars in sight.

  Towering poplars lined both sides, creating a natural tunnel. I could hear their leaves through my open windows, sighing and fluttering in the breeze.

  There was something strange about being the only human in sight, traveling through this eerie corridor of trees. Like going through a portal.

  I laughed hoarsely. “You’ve been driving too long, bud,” I said to my reflection in the rearview.

  I picked up the paper coffee cup and swished around the cold remains. With a grin, I took the final swig and put the cup back in the cup holder.

  Of course I knew it wasn’t literally a portal, but I hoped it would turn out to be a metaphorical one. I was looking for adventure. Something unexpected and new.

  My car was nearing the end of the tree tunnel, and I could already see the town sign—Welcome to Riverdale—and a gas station.

  I beat out a rhythm on the steering wheel, eager to finally stretch my legs and get a feel for this place.

  Probably wouldn’t stay more than a couple weeks. This would just be the first stop in a rambling journey. That was the plan. I had a vague idea of driving until I ended up in Mexico.

  On the other hand, maybe I’d like the place and decide to stay longer. Riverdale was supposed to be good for hiking and bird watching.

  I really had no definite plan—and I loved that.

  I’d booked seven days in a BnB. That would give me time to look around and get to know the place. The landlady could give me the ins and outs.

  “What was her name again? Caroline! That was it. Gotta remember that. Caroline, Caroline.”

  We’d exchanged a few messages through the booking website. Her profile picture was a photo of sunflowers with “Love” written over it in curly-cue script.

  That pic gave me the impression she was an older lady, though it was all I had to go by.

  I was hoping she was a good cook. The stay included dinner every day, and I was looking forward to that part. Being so focused on my business meant eating lots of takeout—and sometimes forgetting to eat at all. Home-cooked meals every day would be amazing.

  Driving onto a leafy street, I passed quaint wooden houses, painted blue, yellow, or white. A few were brick. They all looked picturesque.

  “Well, Jim, you were right, my friend.”

  My investor and good friend had told me about Riverdale, almost reluctantly. A little town tucked away in a corner of North Carolina. A place close to nature, connected with the past—and so far from the city that you might as well be in another world.

  I could already see what he meant. It had that old-fashioned American charm that felt almost like going back in time. Something about the way the sunlight hit the houses made them look agreeably dreamy and inviting, as if I’d wandered into an idyllic old painting.

  The street curved up a hill, taking me past some larger, colonial-style homes. Eventually, the road descended again and I came to another street—Riverside Way.

  “This is it.”

  Passing a park, I could see the river glistening beyond a slope of grass. Willow trees drooped languidly. A boy and girl rode their bikes down the street, laughing.

  It all felt so exotic, somehow. A hidden energy seemed to radiate through the air.

  Most of the houses were well kept, and some had beautifully tended gardens. However, I noticed two—both on the opposite side, not on the river side—that seemed vacant, with real estate signs on the lawns.

  The BnB stood on the river side, a two-story home with wide windows and a sturdy porch, a great, pink flowering bush sprawling in front.

  It was a big home, the kind meant for a large family.

  I wondered if the lady, Caroline, had a husband and kids. I hadn’t asked. The description of the place gave the impression that it was quiet, so I’d assumed there weren’t any kids.

  Getting out of the car, my legs were stiff. It was half past four—earlier than I said I’d be. I wondered if Caroline was home, but there was a small hatchback in the driveway.

  Climbing the steps, I knocked on the door, then stepped back to take in more details. The porch swing looked like it wasn’t used much. And the bush was encroaching over the railing, dropping its pink petals onto the porch floor.

  To my right, a tall plank fence stood with overgrown hedges behind it blocking any view of the neighbors’ house. On the left, the other neighboring house was equally charming, though smaller and cuter.

  Wiping sweat from my forehead, I knocked ag
ain. A sound came from within—the creak of a hardwood floor.

  Here she comes.

  Why did I suddenly feel slightly nervous?

  Chapter two

  The door opened. A woman with light brown hair and sparkling blue eyes stood there.

  She was pretty—stunning, actually—though she was much older than me. She smiled, revealing slight crow’s feet around her eyes. “Hi! You must be Ryan.”

  “And you must be Caroline.”

  Our eyes were locked for a moment as we shook hands. Her grip was firm, though her body was soft.

  She wasn’t like the typical 40-something soccer moms back in the city, with their overly toned arms and scrawny legs. Caroline was robust and healthy, filled out in exactly the right places.

  She wore a long, sleeveless dress with spaghetti straps. I fought hard not to look. Still, I was aware that her silky hair rested around her neck, and a hint of cleavage showed in the neckline of her dress, which seemed to be holding a lot in.

  “Welcome to my home. Sorry I didn’t hear you at first. I was out in the garden.”

  “No problem,” I replied with a broad smile, maybe a little too enthusiastically.

  I stepped through her door into the cool air of her house.

  Hardwood floors glistened in the afternoon light streaming through tall windows. To the right, a staircase with a carved banister curved up to the second floor. I assumed the bedrooms would be up there.

  The air was fragrant with a potpourri of dried flowers in a bowl at the window. The place felt lived in and cozy, with a woman’s touch everywhere.

  Caroline stood with her hands clasped in front of her waist, exuding a soft but somehow unchallengeable confidence. She was the master of this domestic realm. There was no room for doubt about that. This was her house, her very own world that she’d created herself.

  What about a husband? Is she married?

  “You want to get your luggage, or can I show you around first?”

  “Show me around first. Should I take off my shoes?” I glanced at her feet. She was wearing sandals that left her feet mostly naked. Her toenails were painted white.

  She waved her hand. “Don’t worry about it. I’m always coming and going from the back yard.”

  On the left, a wide archway led into the dining room. I followed Caroline in.

  The furniture was antique, and the place was picture-perfect, with exposed beams and a brick fireplace.

  But my eyes were irresistibly drawn to the woman walking in front of me.

  Her hair cascaded over her bare shoulders and back. The top part of the dress fit closely to her body, and then caressed her broad hips, flowing down to her ankles.

  The shapeliness of her butt was evident under the material of her dress. The way it swayed was enough to distract me. I swallowed thickly, trying to avert my gaze.

  The dining area connected seamlessly to a living room, with arm chairs, a couch, and an old piano tucked in one corner.

  Through another archway ahead, I could see the kitchen, where a granite countertop island had a bowl of oranges on it. The sweet scent of something baking wafted in the air.

  Caroline paused, spreading her hands. “This is all yours to use. Feel free to come and hang out here, or wherever. This is your home, too.”

  I nodded politely. “Alright. I will. Thank you.”

  “Come on, I’ll show you the kitchen.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “So are you here on vacation?” she said as I walked alongside her.

  “Uh, not exactly. Just kind of traveling without any definite plan.”

  “Wow! Lucky you. I’d love to do that.” She gave me a curious look as if she wanted to ask about it, but maybe she didn’t want to pry.

  An oven timer beeped as we entered the kitchen.

  “Sorry, I’m baking cookies.” She slipped on a baking mitt.

  “Oh, no problem.”

  As Caroline opened the oven, bending forward to look at her cookies, I glimpsed the tops of her breasts.

  But I glanced away, trying to find somewhere else to point my eyeballs. They found the kitchen table, which basked in bright daylight streaming in from a sunroom. The windows were crowded with plants.

  “Perfect— nice and crispy,” she murmured, taking out two baking trays and setting them on the stove. Then she put a third, raw batch into the oven, setting the timer.

  “Would you like one? They’re oatmeal chocolate.”

  “I actually love oatmeal cookies.”

  Her eyes brightened up. “Oh, perfect! Have you eaten lately? You must be hungry after that drive.”

  “I’m pretty starving, to tell the truth.”

  She scrunched her face sympathetically. “Oh, no. Dinner won’t be ready for a couple hours. Think you can make it?”

  “I’ll survive.” I grinned, watching her take a plate from the cupboard and putting two cookies on it.

  They looked perfect—golden brown around the edges. She watched me with her hands clasped together as I took a bite.

  “Oh! This is so good.”

  A small, complacent smile came onto her lips. “Do you drink milk?” she said, reaching for a glass.

  I nodded, my eyes growing wider. “That would go well with these cookies.”

  “Oh, it sure does. Regular old cow’s milk okay? That’s all I’ve got.”

  I chuckled. “Yes, cow’s milk is fine.”

  “Well, you’re a big city boy, so I thought you might want almond or soy milk,” she smiled, taking a milk jug from the stainless steel fridge. It was one of those old-fashioned glass milk bottles, with cream curdling at the top.

  “Nah, not me. When it comes to food, I’m pretty simple.”

  She poured the glass and handed it to me.

  As I gulped the cool creamy milk, Caroline tucked her hair behind her ears, watching me curiously. A slight tension seemed to build in the air.

  She put the milk away. “So, did you leave a girlfriend back home?”

  The question surprised me a little, but I didn’t mind. I wiped my lips with the back of my fingers.

  “No. Well, not anymore. I broke up with my ex like eight months ago.”

  Caroline tilted her head sympathetically. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. That’s really hard.”

  “Yeah. And… What about you?”

  “Me? I was married…A long time ago. I’m divorced.” She looked at me with a shrugging smile. “But yeah, it’s just me in this big old house. Figured I might as well rent the spare rooms.”

  “Do you get a lot of guests?” I finished off my glass of milk, washing down the final bite of cookie.

  “You’re actually the first.”

  “Hey, what an honor!”

  “Well, thanks.” Caroline tilted her head back and laughed. Her whole face lit up when she did so, the afternoon sunlight mingling with her hair and making her eyes dance.

  There was something magnetic about her expressions, so genuine and unguarded. If she were a teacher, all the children would be devoted to her — especially the boys.

  Passing through the kitchen, Caroline showed me a cozy room with a flatscreen TV.

  “Feel free to watch it. I’ve got pretty much everything on there.”

  I looked around, noticing the several pictures on the wall above the couch. The most prominent one was a large professional portrait of a smiling poodle.

  “You have a dog?”

  She put her hands on her chest. “That’s Mitsy. She passed about a year ago—no…” She counted on her fingers. “Three years! Wow, time goes by.”

  “That sucks,” I murmured. “I love animals. Always hard to lose a pet.”

  “It sure is.” She looked ruefully at the picture, folding her arms under her breasts and hugging herself. Her chest rose as she let out a drowsy sigh.

  The room felt so intimate. My eyes flicked over her arms. I noticed the gentle tan on her shoulders, the slight dusting of freckles on the skin of her chest.

  I could imagine how blissful it would be to squish her against me and plant kisses on her cheek.

  She was just so huggable.

  Chapter three

  Idismissed those thoughts quickly. A mature woman like Caroline wasn’t going to miss much. I could see the perceptiveness in her eyes.