Rachel Homard


Rachel Homard _edited.jpg

The Green Triangle: Preview

Yosef 'Joe' MacArthur

The beans were cold, the sun was hot, and the plastic crate beneath him imprinted tiny squares all over his fourth point of contact. It had been three hours after all: sitting there, watching, waiting. He scraped the inside of the can for the last bite of beans, but his eyes remained focused on the road.
Joe was hoping for trouble. It didn’t matter what kind. He needed something to do, someone to help, a bad guy to test his aim on. He was bored out of his mind with the mundane. Having a friend in Allen was the only thing that kept him sane, but it wasn’t enough. He’d been trained to act by the Army, and before that, by his dad. But if it was between this and allowing himself to be found, he’d choose this every time. There was no way he was ever stepping foot in DC.
So he waited, sweat rolling in beads down his back and through his thick beard. His foot tapped impatiently. The street was barren. Everyone was at the soup kitchen. He could always go. It would make Allen happy, but there was a chance he’d try and play matchmaker between him and Savannah. Joe shook his head. Nope. He’d leave that as plan Z. What would he do there anyway? Play cards and talk to people about their feelings? Pass. He wanted to make a difference, but more than that, he wanted to make up for his failure in Afghanistan. Not that he ever could. He’d bled to earn that Green Beret, just like his dad, and then he disgraced it.


Savannah Carrington

Savannah Carrington parked her BMW under a streetlight and cut the engine. She leaned against the headrest and groaned, the orange light flooding over her blonde waves and the apron dangling from her purse. It was five a.m. Her mother had already sent twelve texts regarding the country club’s Charity Week events. It was always something. Her mother had signed her up, without consent, to drive drunk millionaires around the golf course this evening as they “putted for prostates.”
She held up the pleated golf skirt packaged and left in the car by her mother. Ridiculous. It’d be comforting to think her parents and their socialite friends had their hearts in the right place, but no. It was all to donate to a member of the club with prostate cancer. The same man whose father invented the microwave and who, just last year, brought his pet peacock yachting with him in Monaco.
Switching her phone over to vibrate, she crammed it in the pocket of her jeans. Each event this week supported a charity as ill-deserved as the next. She’d suggested a few, like the one that built tiny homes for veterans and one that supplied inner-city kids with meals while they were in summer vacation. Or better yet, the one closest to her heart: the soup kitchen she poured her life into.
Oh, they all knew about it, but discussing her extracurricular activities was frowned upon. The only thing that kept her mother from drinking her weight in martinis during happy hour was Holden Forsyth.


Rachel is represented by Leanne Tavares at Metamorphosis Literary Agency