When Constable Ely sees the two bodies, there is no doubt in his mind that they have been murdered. It is the most serious crime to have happened in the City since the Great Disaster sixty years ago, and the loss of two productive workers couldn’t have happened at a worse time. After decades of labour, the first of the giant colony ships is ready. A launch date has been set. This last remnant of humanity is ready to leave Earth.
In twenty-four hours there is to be an election to choose the a new leader. Once the results have been announced, a ballot is to be held to allocate seats on the first of the giant spaceships. If Ely wants a seat on that ship, then he needs to find the killer. He must keep the workers safe. Above all else, production must come first.
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I was intrigued by the idea of a society where space was at such a premium that homes had to be shared. I don’t just mean that every room in every house was overfilled, but that even beds, kitchens, and all the rest had to be shared in a shift pattern. From their I created a society, one not quite a Dystopia, but not quite not, one where workers strive everyday not coerced through drugs or other mass opiates, but voluntarily for their is no other choice. Then I added a murder…
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
The characters are all named after places ‘lost beneath the rising waves’. I tried to pick names of cultural or historical resonance with their characteristics (I know that’s not really answering the question, but I thought you might be interested).
Book Excerpt/Sample
Ely ducked. The fist sailed past his face. As he straightened, something struck the side of his head. His helmet took the brunt of the impact, but he staggered forwards, knocking two of the brawling workers to the floor.
Half turning, he lashed out and grabbed a fistful of cloth and arm. He didn’t know if it was the person who’d struck him. He didn’t care. He threw the felon to the ground as his other hand scrabbled from the truncheon on his belt. When he pulled it out, he found the grip unfamiliar. He’d not used the baton for years, not even in practice. Another blow struck him, this time to the back of his neck. The truncheon fell from his fingers and was forgotten as his helmet was dislodged. His display pixelated as it tried to reset. He was blind.
He roared with anger, tore the helmet off and began swinging it left and right. With his other hand he grabbed and pulled the brawling workers apart.
Someone screamed in pain. He didn’t see whom, but the noise reminded Ely that he was the Constable of Tower-One. He was responsible for maintaining law and order. He was responsible for keeping the workers safe.
“Stop!” he yelled, turning his incoherent roar into a barked command. “Stop! I order you to stop!”
Cowed more by his berserker thrashing than by his words, the fight broke up and the workers moved apart.
“Stop.” This time the word came out more quietly. Ely was breathing hard. He’d finished his fourteen hours on duty and had been halfway through his six hours of Recreation when he’d received the alert.
“No! No one move. Don’t even think about it, unless you want me to charge you with fleeing a crime scene, as well.” He addressed this to those edging towards the doors at the back of the crowd. It wouldn’t matter if they did try to creep away. The cameras would have recorded their actions, the chips in their wristboard computers logging their presence in the room at the time of the fight. There was no hiding from guilt, no escaping justice.
The crowd stopped moving and, one by one, turned their collective eyes on the three people lying prostrate on the floor.
Ely cursed as he looked down. One of them seemed… not too serious. The man was rolling from side to side clutching his arm, his eyes tightly shut, his teeth gritted against the pain. A break, Ely guessed. Probably just a fracture. The man was bleeding, but only from a shallow cut on his forehead. No, it was nothing serious, nothing that couldn’t be treated in the infirmary up on Level Seventy-Seven. It was the other two who’d captured the attention of the crowd. Neither were moving.
Ely put his helmet back on. It took a moment for the retinal scan to log him back into the Tower’s surveillance system. He pulled up the camera feeds for the privacy rooms around the lounge’s perimeter to check that no one was lurking within. They were all empty.
A moment after that, two alerts came up on his display, one for each of the two prone men. Their vital signs, monitored by the wristboard computers, were shallow.
As per procedure Ely checked to see if the infirmary had been automatically alerted. It had. The two nurses were already on their way down, yet Ely could tell that the two unconscious felons would require more expert treatment. They would have to be transported to the hospital in Tower-Thirteen.
He cursed again, but feeling that his duty of care had been fulfilled, he turned to look at the mob. As he moved his gaze from worker to worker, a tag appeared on his display, giving their names and criminal probability. For each of them, that number was set at one hundred percent.
“Do you know what you’ve done?” he asked the crowd. “Look at them. Do you know what this means?”
No one spoke. Some looked shocked, others ashamed.
“You know that when they recover they won’t be coming back here,” Ely said. “They’ll be re-assigned to one of the other Towers. Where will that leave our production targets?”
The City of Britain consisted of thirteen Towers jutting up out of the rising sea. Each was home to around twelve thousand citizens. Tower-Thirteen contained the hospital, the large retirement home, the prison, the advanced training school, and the administrative hub for the City. Towers Two through Twelve were the Factories where the components for the colony ships were made. Tower-One housed the Assemblies, where each of those components was checked and rechecked before being transported to the launch site. There, the first three colony ships were in the final stages of construction.
Work in the Assemblies of Tower-One was hard, but unlike labouring in the Factory-Towers, it wasn’t dangerous. Not a shift went by without the newsfeeds reporting a serious, or sometimes fatal, injury from one of them. On leaving the hospital, workers from Tower-One, and those felons who’d completed their sentence working on one of the penal gangs at the launch site, were always re-allocated to one of the Factories. In terms of Tower-One’s productivity, being sent to the hospital was as good as being dead.
“It’s one year until the first ship will be ready to launch,” Ely growled at the mob. “One year! The ballot will be held next week, and you all jeopardise your chance of winning a place on it by brawling like… like…” He couldn’t think of a word that appropriately expressed his disgust.
A sudden, terrible, thought struck him.
“No one move,” he snapped unnecessarily as he pulled up the footage from the fight onto his display. He quickly cycled through the recordings from the different cameras, switching between the ones affixed to the ceilings and doors, the ones worn on the visors of the individual workers, and the one in his own helmet. He relaxed. All the people he’d hit were still standing.
“Control,” Ely spoke into the ever-open microphone on his collar.
“Constable?” The soft voice of Vauxhall, Tower-One’s Controller, came clearly through his earpiece.
“I need to report an affray. Lounge-Two.” Except it wasn’t called that anymore. “The uh… Sailor’s Rest,” he corrected himself. “It’s under control, but at least two workers will require hospitalisation.” There was a shuffling of feet. He raised his voice. “Inform the council.”
“Of course,” the Controller said. “But if they’re awake they’ll already have received the alert sent to the infirmary.”
That was true enough, and they would all be awake. The election was just over three shifts away. It was a foregone conclusion that Councillor Cornwall would be elected Chancellor by a landslide.
“Do any of you wish to admit your guilt?” Ely asked the crowd. He doubted anyone would. They never did. It didn’t matter. He had the camera footage. Up until the Re-Organisation four years ago there had been the audio-feed as well. Then the right to privacy had been amended to the City of Britain’s Constitution, and Ely’s job got more time consuming, though not more difficult. Other than maintaining a watch against sedition, sabotage and recidivism, the only crimes the Constable usually dealt with were the occasional fights. This one was more serious than any he had dealt with before, but he saw no difficulties in resolving it.
He turned his attention back to the images projected onto the inside of his visor. The system had already finished a preliminary analysis of the footage from the past thirty minutes. It had tagged each occasion when a citizen had hit, collided, pushed or in any other way interacted with another worker.
One of the unconscious men twitched violently. Ely ignored the distraction, as he went through the footage, identifying which of those occasions constituted an offence.
Most of the crowd had launched a kick or thrown a punch, but there were seven people who’d done more. Leaving the two unconscious men and the third man still whimpering in pain aside, he focused his attention on the other four.
Juliana Dundee had thrown the blow that had dented his helmet, but it was clear she’d done it accidentally whilst trying to escape the melee in the centre of the room.
The other two, Ashford and Leeds, had initially acted in self-defence, then kept going when instinct overtook reason. He docked them forty points each. That left the other four.
Edmund Lundy, one of the two men on the floor, had thrown the first punch at Gerald Carlisle. Mr Gerald Carlisle, Ely corrected himself, seeing the annotation indicating the man was married. Carlisle had retaliated but neither quickly nor forcefully enough. Before he had landed two blows, Lundy had managed five. Carlisle went down.
And there, Ely thought, the fight could have ended. It would have ended if the woman, now kneeling down next to the unconscious Mr Carlisle, hadn’t picked up a chair and swung it into Lundy’s back.
Ely winced as he replayed footage of that blow. It might be a spinal injury. He hoped not. That would mean months of rehabilitation, possibly even a year before the man was productive once more.
The evidence was incontestable. Once Lundy was down the woman had swung the chair at his head, twice. There was no question that this warranted a custodial sentence. The only possible mitigating factor lay in the reason why she’d gone to the aid of Mr Carlisle in the first place. Sadly, Ely thought he already knew.
“You picked up that chair and hit him. Why?” Ely asked the woman.
She raised her eyes from the man on the floor.
“Because he…” she swallowed, and her tone became loud and defiant. “Because he hit Gerald. My husband.”
Ely nodded. The display recorded her name as Mrs Geraldine Carlisle. The two had been approved for breeding three days ago, registered their marriage during their next free shift, and officially changed their names twenty minutes later.
Marriage wasn’t compulsory, nor was changing one’s name, but both were strongly encouraged since the Re-Organisation. Adopting the names of old places now lost beneath the waves was a way of holding onto the past, of remembering those billions who had died, and carrying their memory onwards to Mars. That was what Councillor Cornwall had said. Ely didn’t disagree with the policy – he’d adopted one of the old names himself – he just didn’t understand the importance of it. Not that it mattered to his job. A citizen could change their name everyday, but that wouldn’t stop the system from tracking their every waking moment.
“Why were you here this evening?” he asked Mrs Carlisle.
“Why shouldn’t I be?” she retorted.
“A good citizen like you, why weren’t you in Recreation?”
“We already did our time there,” she said.
Ely checked the records.
“It says here that you did two hours,” he said.
There was a murmur of disapproval from the crowd.
“So? It’s not like it’s compulsory,” she stated belligerently.
“No, it’s not. And the only reason it’s not, is that most workers know to do their duty. All we need is for each worker to spend four of their off-shift hours exercising on one of the machines in the Recreation Room, and we’ll generate enough electricity to keep the Tower working. And the only reason that malingerers like you don’t cause the lights to turn off is that most people do five or more.”
There was a mixture of self-righteous nodding of heads and shame-faced downcasting of eyes from the crowd.
The Tower’s citizens were split into three shifts. Whilst one third worked, one third slept, and another third were free to do what they wanted. Each shift lasted approximately seven hours, with an hour in between for the workers to get from one part of the Tower to another. During that time, the drones cleaned and sanitised the Assemblies, ‘homes’ and lounges, getting them ready for the next shift.
Theoretically, every citizen had seven hours each day to do with as they pleased. And they had, up until fifteen years ago. That was when the rains had begun.
Whether the rising seas had brought the rains, or the deluge had caused the flood, no one knew. That the water had risen up to lap at the walls outside Level Three, and that the constant rain made the solar panels useless, was indisputable.
“You changed your name to that of your husband’s,” Ely said to Mrs Carlisle. “Indeed, you chose to get married, yet you waste all this energy here when you should be contributing to the greater good. I find that suspiciously inconsistent.”
“They were celebrating,” the man with the broken arm, Roger Grimsby spat out.
“Celebrating what?” Ely asked, but again, he thought already knew.
“That we were going to be able to have a child,” Mrs Carlisle stammered, her defiance beginning to crack under the withering stares of the mob.
“See?” Grimsby said with incandescent indignance, “That’s as good as treason. Production must come first, that’s what Councillor Cornwall says, and he’s right. People like them,” he spat again, “they have no thought for the future, no thought about the society as a whole. All they care about is themselves.”
“Quiet!” Ely barked, as he quickly ran through the footage working out Grimsby’s part in it.
Lundy had knocked Mr Carlisle to the ground, but not knocked him out. Ely watched as Grimsby waded into the melee, shoving Mrs Carlisle out of the way. The woman blocked his view. He switched to a different camera. He saw Grimsby kick Mr Carlisle in the head. Ely pulled up the footage from Grimsby’s visor and replayed the scene. He was clearly responsible for knocking the man out. The question was whether that kick was intentional.
“We just wanted to spend time together,” Mrs Carlisle said, this time quietly.
The tutting from the crowd, now collectively relieved that their sins were minor compared to hers, grew.
“What use are children?” Grimsby asked, sensing that he had the support of the mob. “That’s just more unproductive mouths to be fed, and what use is that when we’re so close to leaving the Earth? Seventeen years is what it takes to breed someone up until they can be productively useful. That’s a seventeen-year drain on resources. How does that help when the first ship will launch in a year’s time? Can’t you wait?”
“Seventeen years, plus the two weeks maternity leave for her,” Juliana Dundee said, seeking to gain some of the crowd’s favour. “And count the energy lost in running the crèche and the school. We’d be on Mars already if it weren’t for the likes of them.”
Whether to have a moratorium on population increase was a debate that had been raging since the launch date had been announced, and one Ely expected to continue until the last human stepped off the planet for the last time.
“And what,” he asked the crowd loudly, “about the two people we will now have to breed up as replacements for these two who are going to the hospital? You didn’t think about that, did you? No, I’ve seen the footage. You can spout whatever high-minded rhetoric you want, but none of you were acting in the interests of production.”
That shut them up.
He glanced down at Mr Carlisle. The injured man was looking increasingly pale. It was possible, Ely thought, that the nurses wouldn’t arrive in time.
“Dundee, for damaging state property, I’m docking you sixty points. Leeds, Ashford, for wilful assault, you’re docked forty points each. As for the rest of you, none of you tried to stop the brawl. That makes you equally culpable. I could dock each and every one of you for the loss of labour,” he paused, “but I won’t. I’m inclined to be lenient. I’m docking you twenty points each.”
Ely looked from person to person to see if anyone would argue. No one said a word. Most looked resigned, some indifferent, others dismayed, their reactions determined by how many points they’d had at the start of the shift. He tapped out a command, logging the sentences, and then distributed them to each citizen.
“You have a right to appeal,” he said, formally. “Appeals must be lodged within the next twenty-four hours. Failure to appeal will be taken as an admission of guilt.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “This lounge is now closed until shift-change. It will require hours of labour to repair the damage you’ve caused.” It wouldn’t. The drones would have it cleaned and ready for the next shift in under thirty minutes. “It’s only fitting, therefore, that you go now and queue for your ‘home’, and,” he added as there was a whisper of grumbling from the back of the crowd, “I suggest you go now, before I change my mind about the charges.”
The grumbling grew louder as they headed out the doors. Ely ignored them.
As the last of the mob left the lounge, Tower-One’s two nurses, Bronwin Gower and Geoffrey Bradford entered, each pushing a stretcher before them. Like the other civic servants, their material-efficient jumpsuit was dyed blue, though of a lighter shade than the one Ely wore.
Nurse Bradford moved to the men on the floor, whilst Nurse Gower moved straight to Grimsby, whose moaning, Ely thought, was louder and more theatrical than before.
“It’s fractured, but not badly,” Nurse Gower said. “You’ll need a cast. Can you walk?”
“I don’t know,” Grimsby replied, his voice weak.
“I thought you said you were for Production First,” Ely snapped. “And now you want us to waste more hours pushing you up to the infirmary?”
“Alright, I can walk,” Grimsby said, getting to his feet with an exaggerated show of discomfort. Ely smiled at the nurse in a gesture of knowing solidarity.
“Good,” she said, ignoring the Constable. “Then make your own way over to the elevators. We’ll meet you there shortly.”
“How long will you need to treat him?” Ely asked, loudly.
The nurse made a point of taking her time in answering.
“Transferring the other two will take half an hour,” she said. “Call it two hours. Perhaps three.”
Ely nodded and checked the time. It was two hours until the end of shift. During shift-change the elevators were reserved for the sole use of workers.
“I’ll be up half an hour after shift-change to sentence him,” he said.
Sentencing Grimsby could wait. Sentencing Mrs Carlisle could not.
“Mrs Geraldine Carlisle, for your active part in the hospitalisation of two workers and the loss of production that will cause, I sentence you to death.” The woman didn’t even flinch. She knew what was coming. “However, due to the current labour shortage of which you are now a cause, and if you waive the right to appeal, I am inclined to give you a choice. Death or 100,000 hours service on the penal gangs at the launch site. The choice is yours.
“Some choice! 100,000 hours? How long is that? Thirty years?”
“It’s still a choice,” Ely said. “For the record, do you accept the sentence or do you wish to appeal?”
“Fine, fine. I’ll accept,” she said despondently. “What does it matter? I won’t be having any children, will I?”
“Not now, no.”
“But, perhaps we will,” she said, her defiance returning once more, “when we get to Mars.”
“Perhaps,” he allowed. “The punishment will be ratified when you reach Tower-Thirteen.”
He turned to Nurse Bradford who was bent over two unconscious men.
“How are they?” the Constable asked.
“There’s nothing we can do for them here,” the male nurse replied. “They need the hospital. Did you remember to call Tower-Thirteen for a transport?”
“I can’t,” Ely said slowly, through gritted teeth, “not until you confirm it’s necessary. That’s procedure.”
“Well, I’m confirming it now,” the nurse retorted.
“Control,” Ely said, turning his back on the nurses and injured felons, “I’m confirming we have two patients who need emergency transport to Tower-Thirteen. One felon is being transported with them, her sentence is to be ratified at the prison.”
“Of course,” Vauxhall said. “What about the man with the injured arm? He doesn’t look too serious.”
“You’re watching?” Ely glanced up at the nearest camera.
“Of course. It’s not like there’s anything else going on in the Tower right now.”
Conscious that everything was being recorded, and knowing that a Constable was far more easily replaced than a Controller, Ely kept his remarks strictly professional.
“That man, Grimsby, can be treated in the infirmary,” he said.
“Fine. Transport for three,” she said with a tone that Ely thought didn’t match the gravity of the situation. He didn’t comment. Nor did he say anything to the two nurses as they loaded the injured felons onto the stretchers and pushed them out through the doors with Mrs Carlisle following close behind.
Another thought struck him. The nurses might be able to treat Grimsby in the infirmary, but that didn’t mean the man would be able to continue working with his arm in a cast. He pulled up footage from the man’s last shift. Ely relaxed again as he watched Grimsby work.
A piece of circuitry came in across the conveyor and stopped. The man bent over it, a thin metal wand in his right hand. He touched it against a piece of wire. A light on the wand turned green, the conveyor belt moved, taking the now-approved component up to the sorting room on Level Seventy-Seven where it would await collection and transportation. Ely didn’t bother to check what the circuitry was being used for. It didn’t matter. Grimsby could perform his duties with one hand.
Ely looked around the now empty lounge. The place was a mess, but no more so than usual. He stepped outside and swiped his hand down the panel on the wall. The door closed. He tapped out a command, and a moment later he heard the sound of the drones coming out of their concealed crevices to clean and sanitise the room.
He tapped out a requisition for a new chair. He doubted it would be approved. Almost as an afterthought, he tapped out another message, placing a requisition for a new helmet. He doubted that would get approved either.
A green light blinked at the bottom of his vision. He had a call coming in. It was from Chancellor Stirling. He answered.
“Yes ma’am.”
“Why aren’t you on patrol, Constable?”
“There was a disturbance in the—”
“I know that. You think I wouldn’t know?” she interrupted. “You’ve sentenced the suspects. Whilst this might have been the most serious incident in some time, the crime is now over. I can see that. What I can’t see is why you are not on patrol.”
“I’d finished my shift and was on Recreation when I was alerted to the—” but again she didn’t let him finish.
“The police need to be seen,” she said. “I’ve told you this. Or do you think I can be disregarded, eh? The election hasn’t occurred yet, Constable. The results are not yet in. Useful workers, productive workers, vital citizens…” she put an emphasis on the words to make it clear she did not count Ely as one of them, “…need to know that the energy they expend to ensure your comfort is well spent. Justice needs to be seen to be done, so go and be seen, Constable.”
“Yes ma’a…” But she had already clicked off.
Ely briefly closed his eyes. In just over a day the election would begin. It didn’t matter what she said, Stirling was going to lose and Cornwall would replace her.
Four years ago Cornwall had been a worker in Tower-Four. There was an explosion in one of the Factories and Cornwall had run into the fire to rescue the components from inside. That was a week before the election. During the aftermath, when various citizens approached him looking for a story to post to the newsfeeds, he gave his speech on Re-Organisation. He spoke of remembering the past but focusing on the future, on putting Production First as the only way to ensure humanity reached Mars. The sentiment, and his heroics, struck a chord with the electorate. Though he wasn’t an official candidate, when it came to vote, over 80,000 people, nearly eighty percent of the City’s voting age population, wrote his name onto their ballot.
Chancellor Stirling, re-elected by the slimmest of margins, then adopted his policy of Re-Organisation. Everyone saw through this transparent attempt to benefit from Cornwall’s popularity. The Chancellor’s poll numbers had been sinking steadily ever since.
Ely was an avid supporter of Councillor Cornwall and his theories of Production First. It was his aim to one day follow the man into politics and become a Councillor himself. Though he doubted whether anyone would vote for someone as universally reviled as a Constable.
Putting thoughts of sleep on hold, at least for a few more hours, he walked over to the elevator to begin his lonely patrol.
Author Bio:
‘Work. Rest. Repeat.’ is the first of a series of non-related books, set during an election. This first one is a dystopian detective story set in a world where humanity has been so focused on its own survival, there has been no serious crime for generations; where space is at such a premium that ‘homes’ have to be shared; where the election, the murder and the fate of this last remnant of humanity are interlinked.
Surviving The Evacuation is a collection of post-apocalyptic novels and short stories set in the immediate aftermath of a global outbreak. Nations have fallen. Societies have collapsed. Those who are left struggle for survival, in a world where zombies are not the only thing to be feared.
Undead Britain, a new stand-alone short story set in the Evacuation universe is now available as part of the ‘At Hell’s Gate’ anthology. The series will continue with new characters in Book 4: Unsafe Haven, due out later this year.
The world of the near future. Dictatorships still exist. One such place is America. The America of the past is not the America of the future.
Fear and uncertainty has led to a leader for life who has taken control of everything. Every business, private organization and even religion is under his control. The common apathy has led to austerity. Control is tenuous at best, but it will be maintained, at any and all costs.
Taylor Scott, scientist desires to turn his experience creating military technology into an ambitious humanitarian project that will alleviate the shortages and improve life for the citizens by creating a semi-intelligent beast of burden capable of performing agricultural tasks. Plentiful food, better quality of life for the citizens and reduced fossil fuel consumption are the benefits.
However, the leader for life has another plan, a sinister purpose for the beasts. His operatives on the inside modify the experiment and steal Taylor’s intellectual property to create a beast that is battle ready and can wield the power of the leader without reservation and with no remorse.
Miscalculation?
No, cold calculation.
Mistake?
No, total domination of the populace is within grasp.
Taylor continues the experiment with the help of fellow scientist, Christine Summers who shares his interests and their interest in each other grows. Unknown to them, their subject will not be the work beast they intended. No, he will be much more.
The experiment is a success, and their creation is not alone.
Taylor and Christine must now destroy what they have created. Pursued by their experiment and the leader, they join forces with the freedom fighters and help them win their liberty from tyranny and its unfeeling beasts of war.
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I was inspired to write “Asterion” because of the politics of power and control and its use of technology to maintain and grow its influence.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
I like characters that are real and have real wants and concerns. Given the circumstances they find themselves in, they must rise to the occasion and do what is right.
Book Excerpt/Sample
The familiar sound of assault rifles being raised caused him to freeze. He saw several barrels out of the corner of his eye. Caldwell called out. “Drop it or we shoot.”
Taylor stood his ground. “Stop him first!”
Caldwell ordered Asterion to cease his attack. Asterion growled as he turned, looked at him and snorted in anger. His breath in the morning air steamed from his nostrils and he backed away. Caldwell approached the entrance of the cave and said, “Ma’am, Army soldiers. Come out with your hands where we can see them.”
From the entrance of the cave she asked, “Where is Asterion?”
Caldwell replied, “He is a safe distance away.”
“Okay.” She came out, hands first, and they cuffed both of them and marched them back to the vehicle.
Caldwell checked the shackles on the three and looked at Barry. “You know, for a country hick, there is an awful lot of interest in you, fella. You’ll have to travel with us and answer some questions back at the base.”
Barry looked up at Caldwell and with a sneer said, “I’ve got nothing to tell you or anyone.”
Caldwell smiled. “Save your breath for the interrogators.”
Caldwell left the back of the covered truck and addressed the squad. “We’ll travel to this guy’s house and see what he might have there. We can hole up there until tomorrow and leave at dawn.”
The squad approached the house cautiously and secured the area. They brought the prisoners into the house.
Asterion cautioned Caldwell, “It might be wise to separate the local from Christine and Taylor. I have to talk to them.”
Caldwell warned Asterion, “Don’t touch them. We won’t allow an illegal act to take place while you are with us, understood?”
Asterion, with his teeth bared in more of a snarl than a smile, replied, “Understood.”
Taylor and Christine were confined in one bedroom and Barry was put in the master bedroom. Guards stood outside the windows and the interior doors.
Asterion approached the guard posted outside of their room. “I have to interrogate the prisoners.”
The guard stepped aside. “I’ll be outside the door in case you decide to disobey sergeant’s orders.” Asterion nodded and, crouching, entered the room. Taylor and Christine stared at him in silence.
Asterion cocked his head and laughed with a guttural bellow that shook the house. “Well, welcome to the family reunion.”
Taylor met Asterion’s gaze squarely. “Nice, but we could have used some more time to plan.”
Asterion’s smile dropped and he angrily responded, “What, so you could set a trap?”
Christine asked, “Why are you so angry with us? We raised you and loved you. We wanted the best for you.”
Asterion seemed touched for a moment, but shot back, “Really? Then why did you plan for me to be a beast that trudges through the muddy fields of your agriculture?”
Taylor replied, “Look, you were supposed to be a work animal. I will not lie to you, but you have to understand that we never thought that a creature that is able to exhibit the intelligence you have could ever be created.”
Asterion thought for a second. “You mean that your religion taught you not to create such a creature or that it could not be created. I almost never came into existence because of your superstitions.”
Christine interrupted, “This is uncharted territory. We did not know what was possible.”
“Nonetheless, I would not be speaking here now if you had your way. I would be either dumb or terminated. I am what I am only because of Trent and Burnsom. Now, who do you think has my allegiance?”
Taylor leaned toward him. “Asterion, when we thought you might be intelligent like a human, we treated you with the love and care we would give to any person. We didn’t know if you would be or not, but we erred on the side of caution and accepted you. We taught you our religious beliefs because we thought there is a possibility that you had a soul and you need to have a chance to know God. I don’t know; maybe we made a mistake.”
Asterion snickered. “Aw, isn’t that sweet. Well, it doesn’t look like your God is coming to rescue you or that He even had power to let you evade me in the first place.”
Christine sternly responded, “That’s not the way it works. Faith is a concept based not upon the immediate actions of God intervening in our lives, but on the belief that He works with eternity in mind. Faith is proven by our belief in what we can’t see and it believes in the future He plans for humankind.”
Taylor added, “Yes, we see God in everything. From the world to the universe and beyond, His signature is on all of it. Many see random actions relying on astronomical odds and believe in that. We see the hands of the Creator.”
Asterion replied, “Where does an aberration like me fit in here? You created me. Are you God?”
Taylor responded, “I may have put you together, but I started with living material. Many have tried to start life from the simple elements and they produced a few basic chemical compounds, but not the living from the nonliving. Even if I took a living cell and dissected it, the cell would die. And if I took all the complex molecules that life is made of and tried to reassemble them, I still would not have a living cell again. Yet, there are so many that believe that life came from those inanimate elements and somehow became alive by some mysterious process. Tell me that does not take faith.”
Asterion thought for a second. “So you are telling me to believe in a God I can’t see and everyone else wants me to believe in a process that can’t be observed or duplicated. I tell you what. I’ll believe in the here and now. I believe in my abilities and me. I’m not waiting for God and primordial soup means nothing today. I know who made me and that wasn’t you two.” Asterion turned around and crouched to clear the door. He hesitated as he stood at the threshold, started to turn his head, but looked forward and closed the door behind him.
Caldwell met Asterion in the kitchen. “Well, did you find out anything?”
“No, not much.”
Caldwell informed him, “We leave at dawn.”
“Good,” Asterion walked into the living room to retire for the night on the floor.
Caldwell’s alarm went off at five-thirty and he got his troopers up to prepare for the trip back to base. The guard knocked on Barry’s door and, hearing no reply, enters, only to find the room empty. He alerted Caldwell who ordered a search of the room and questioned the guard outside the window.
Returning to the room, Caldwell deduced, “He did not leave by the door or window. There has to be some sort of trapdoor with a tunnel.” The men finally located the trap door and followed the tunnel until they came out in the nearby woods.
“Perfect,” Caldwell sarcastically lamented, “The general will have my head for this. Fan out and scour the woods. Find his trail.”
Asterion smiled and knew that this made him look good. He might have more leverage now.
The soldiers reported to Caldwell, “Sir, we can’t find a trace or trail of him.
Caldwell cautioned, “Well, we can’t make a lot of noise in town. No one is supposed to know about this.” He took a deep breath and commanded, “Give me the communicator.” Activating it, he was soon speaking to the General. He could hear the stripes ripping off his uniform. “General, I regretfully report that Barry Thomason managed to escape, and we cannot track him without causing a commotion in this area.” He waited fearfully for the response.
The General said, “You have the primary detainees. Thomason is not that important to the mission. Return them to the base. You don’t have time to reacquire him. This will not count against you due to the need for stealth.”
Yes sir, “Caldwell smartly replied, “We will return before sundown.” He put the communicator down and breathes a sigh of relief. He had thought his career was over. Caldwell stood up and ordered, “Move out!”
Asterion set a timed incendiary charge and left the house. He smiled at the sweet taste of revenge and he desired even more. The truck traveled down the road for a few miles before the charge ignited. All the memories that make a house a home burned in the raging inferno. Family pictures displayed in frames on shelves and tables started to bubble. They turned black and the smiling faces disappeared in the flames.
Barry watched from the woods as they started on their way back to Fort Pershing. His survivalist skills, honed by his experiences in the Cartel Wars, had served him well today. Hearing the collapse of the house caused him to turn in that direction. He saw a plume of smoke and his heart sank. He knew what they had done. His anger caused him to pray for strength and forgiveness. Not just for himself, but for the enemy. He reminded himself that he still had his family and smiled. A single tear slowly rolled down his face, reflecting a flicker from the light of the flames. He walked back to the charred remains of his home. On the ground, he found a photo that blew away from the fire. He turned it over and saw that it was a photo of him, Mary, and Chance smiling in the living room. He thought, “It’s not the living room, it’s the people that live there.” He put it in his pocket and walked slowly through the woods toward his sister’s house.
Taylor and Christine sat shacked in the back of the truck near the cab. Surrounded by soldiers, they stared at Asterion as he stared at them. His fingers tapped impatiently on the hard metal. Each finger individually tapped the bench, then his claws extended and each clicked against the metal. Tap, tap, tap, tap, click, click, click, click over and over again. They wondered what he was plotting. He wondered how he can get them away from the soldiers. Caldwell and his team wondered what they had gotten themselves into with this beast.
The truck entered Fort Pershing and drove straight into a hanger. Everyone got out of the vehicle and General Foxx waited for their arrival. “Get those two into a secure room. Asterion, you come with me.” Asterion followed him with a sneer on his face, showing his contempt for human orders.
In the general’s office, Foxx looked at Asterion. “Burnsom has given you all the latitude you need to do your job, but you are on my base and illegal acts will not be tolerated.”
“If I have all the latitude, then what I do is none of your concern.”
Foxx responded sternly, “Don’t try me. If you can’t observe the rules, then I’ll put you on the next transport to Washington.”
Asterion stared down at Foxx. “Are we done here?”
“Yes, close the door on your way out.”
Asterion went to his room and called Burnsom. “I want those two for myself.”
“The military has rules that we have to abide by while we are there. I’ll be there tonight. We’ll talk then.”
Taylor and Christine sat in the room assigned to them for hours, wondering how they might get away. They heard the click of a key turning and Burnsom strolled in with a smile. “I’m sorry to hear about all the trouble you two have been having. I acted to secure your safety as soon as I heard.”
Taylor looked at Christine with a skeptical expression and turned to Burnsom. “That’s awfully nice of you.”
“Not a problem. Not a problem at all. I think we may have gotten off to a bad start. You two have a lot to contribute to society. However, we will have to keep a close eye on you.”
Christine asked, “What choice do we have?”
Burnsom laughed. “I don’t believe I offered any choice, other than work for me or I turn you over to Asterion.”
Taylor responded, “So it’s prison work or death. I thought we had outlived our usefulness to you.”
Burnsom shot back, “Don’t get smart. We can use you, but you are not irreplaceable by any means. I will control this country no matter what it takes or who has to be convinced to obey me.”
Taylor responded, “Convinced. That’s just a euphemism for coercion.”
Burnsom huffed, “Call it what you want. I have been getting away with it for a long time. I have the power, and with Asterion and the legions of creatures, I will be unstoppable.”
Christine asked, “How long do we have to think about the offer?”
“Twenty-four hours; not a minute longer.” Burnsom spun around and left, slamming the door behind him.”
Asterion waited on the other side of the door. Burnsom looked up. “I doubt that they will agree to help us. Unless you hear from me before the next twenty-four hours are up, facilitate their escape without them knowing you are behind it and track them down in some rural area. Make sure you are away from prying eyes and make sure their bodies are never found.”
Asterion snickered, “If they are of some use, consider this: I make sure they escape and acquire Christine away from the base. Taylor will have no choice but to aid us.”
Burnsom smiled. “Good plan. He will save Trent a few months on development. Trent is having some trouble with the success rate of the new beasts. Several aborted failures for each viable creature is not fast enough.”
“Leave it to me, but I want them when you are finished.”
“Okay, but be careful, don’t let your emotions and desire for revenge cloud your judgment.”
“No problem; I know my time will come. Like many farm animals, they will meet their end when their usefulness is over.”
Burnsom, walking away, stopped and turned slightly. “Make sure that is what happens.” Burnsom continued down the hall, leaving Asterion alone.
Taylor looked at Christine. “Well, we have twenty-three and a half hours to figure this out.”
Christine shook her head. “We can’t help him destroy this country any more than he already has. We may have to die for our faith and our country.”
“Well, faith will always be there, but the country … I just don’t know if it can survive an army of these creatures. However, I’m not quite ready to lie down and die.”
Christine asked, “What do you have in mind?”
“I’m thinking. I’m thinking.” He sat on the end of the cot and took a deep breath.
Author Bio:
Kenneth Morvant is a life science professional and science fiction fan that loves to write stories that extend the boundaries of science and challenges the reader to consider the consequences of its use and misuse.
A true story written in the form of letters to the men in her life. The author takes us on a journey filled with twists and turns through both dramatic and humorous events. She reveals the thoughts and feelings she has buried deep within her soul for decades.
The final chapter focusing on healing and recovery, includes sections on Alcoholism, Bipolar, Sexual Trauma/Abuse, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) and Spirituality. Anyone who has experienced any type of personal trauma or difficult circumstances will find hope, encouragement and support for their own healing process.
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
For many years I have worked as a volunteer mentor to people in various stages of recovery from sexual trauma/abuse, mental illness and alcoholism/drug addiction. One constant theme I hear from most of the people I help is that they feel no one really gets it, that no one really understands what they are going through. So I wrote this book to show people I may never get the chance to meet that there is someone who gets it and has found a way to heal and recover. I wanted to share the decades of hell that I have lived through and to share with them how I found help, hope and power when I was feeling helpless, suicidal and lost forever. I want them to know that they are not alone and that no matter how bad they may feel or how bad their situation may seem, there is a way out and up.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
I took the major portion of the book from diaries, journals and old letters and then edited for clarity. I have been recording my thoughts and feelings since I was 5 years old, but I never shared these with anyone.
For the last chapter on healing and recovery, I combined my experiences with documented research and recovery methods.
Book Excerpt/Sample
Excerpts from Dear Men, What I really wanted to say…
From Chapter 1 – Childhood
Dear Eric,
My parents trusted you to take care of me and protect me while they went to work. You seemed like such a nice man. When I looked at you, I thought of a grandpa. Someone who I could crawl up in their lap and feel safe. Your eyes always twinkled. Your smile was so nice to look at. You always told such funny stories and made us laugh.
Why did you let her hurt me?
You and Anne picked us up from kindergarten school every day and helped us to practice our ABCs. You played with us outside in the yard on the swings and the bikes. I thought you really liked me. I thought you were my friend.
Why did you let her make me cry?
How could you let her treat me that way?
You just stood there and hid your face by looking away when Anne threw me up on the dining table in front of all the other children and stripped my clothes off. What did I do? I was laying there naked and shaking.
She called me a filthy little pig. She said I was dirty and disgusting, and other words I never even heard before. She said something about how no man would ever want to touch me, ever. What does that mean? She was so angry and so hateful to me. What did I do?
You didn’t even try to stop her when she pinched my arms and legs and I begged her to stop. I couldn’t stop crying because it hurt so much and that just made her madder. You didn’t say anything. I kept trying to look at you, but you wouldn’t see me?
What did I do wrong?
Do you know how scared and bad I felt? I can still see all those little faces around the table. Looking and staring at me. I thought they were my friends too. Maybe no one said anything because they were afraid she would turn on them and they would be next.
What did I do?
I never told my parents what happened when they came to pick me up. I was afraid that you all knew something I didn’t know and that they would be mad at me too.
I had bad dreams for a long, long time about that day, but I couldn’t tell anyone except my diary and my dollies. My dollies promised me they would never tell.
Why did you let her do that?
I was only 5 yrs. old. Maybe if I was 3 years old she wouldn’t hurt me.
Dear Daddy,
I don’t know how I got here from my bed?
My back is pressed against the kitchen door. It’s all dark. I feel frozen. I can’t stop shaking. I’m looking out over the dining room and there are large pots and vases everywhere. Out of each one is a huge mean snake – all of them have red fiery eyes staring right at me. They are sticking out their long slimy forked tongues at me. I know they are going to eat me. I can’t move, I am so scared, from somewhere, I don’t know where, I hear myself screaming and screaming. I don’t know if I am screaming from the outside or the inside.
Then suddenly through the dark I see you running to me like a warrior in a battle. Each step you take closer to me – another and another snake disappears – I just know they are afraid of you, because they know you will tear them into millions of pieces.
As you scoop me up and hold me against your chest, putting your strong arms around my tiny little body. I know I am safe from all the snakes, all the monsters, all the things that could hurt me. Nothing can touch me now, here in this safe protected place.
I love so much Daddy. I love you Daddy for always and ever and ever.
Daddy you are my Hero!
Chapter 2 – Adolescence
Dear Randy and Brian,
You two were the best ‘stand-in’ brothers a girl could ever ask for. You were always showing up at just the right time and watching out for me.
Like the time my parents were gone, you drove up at the moment I was coming out of the front door with my Dad’s six shooter fully loaded, in my hand – hanging down at my side.
You both jumped out of the car and came up on either side of me. One of you grabbed the gun; I don’t remember which one and each of you picked me up on either side with an arm under my arms. My feet were dangling in mid-air and I was yelling and screaming about how angry I was at Shawn and how I had to make him pay! What a sight that must have been!
You took me in my bedroom and one of you stood against the door. You listened to me rant and rave and cry for hours. You stayed with me until I had calmed down and help me think it through.
You were my guardian angels that day – sent by God. It makes me shudder to think what might have happened if you hadn’t shown up when you did. I could have ruined my life and Shawn’s and others’ lives.
Wherever you are, I hope life has treated you well and that you are both blessed and happy.
Dear Dad,
Wow! My 17th birthday party made it into the paper! Isn’t that cool! I had no idea it would turn out to be so big. The newspaper reported that my party, “grew to over 300 people and that the Tucson Police Department’s helicopter was used to disperse the crowd” (Tucson Daily Citizen, 1974).
When my friends and I started planning it, we started out thinking maybe only 30 or 40 people would come. Then it kept getting bigger and bigger. We put out flyers all over town.
Of course, everyone calls me “George”, or “Crazy George”, but I think it’s funny that some people we gave the flyers to, think that it’s a party for some guy. Like the time when I was 15 and ditching school. The school called mom and said, “Your son is absent from school today”. I just thought that was hilarious!
You seem to be okay with my drinking. I guess you are relieved that I am not using drugs. You told me about some of the men you work with losing their kids to drugs and I could see the fear in your eyes. We have been through a lot together and I am really trying hard to stay away from drugs.
Anyway, the party was ‘kicking ass’, which means it was really fun. Willie had set up this cool sound system in his van that seemed to echo from all sides of the desert. We were dancing in the dirt and around the bonfire and yelling at the top of our lungs. It was so very cool. It felt so free. We were all having such a great time. That is until the police helicopters showed up and made everyone leave.
I didn’t know anything about one of the deputies being hit by a rock or denting his car until I read the article in the paper the next day.
That really is UNCOOL!
The only thing I remember is when the helicopter spotlight hit the center of the party, some of the guys dropped their jeans and were mooning the helicopter and I swear Dad, you could hear a couple of the officers laughing over the loud speaker. It was a pretty funny sight.
Chapter 3 – The Military Years
Dear Bobby,
Val introduced me to you. She said you worked in the Comm. Squadron on base. You reminded me of a younger version of Bobby Kennedy. You both had the same hair and smile. Most of the time you were so serious, but once in awhile you could be funny when you let your walls down.
Val and Ron, and you and I had such a good time drinking beer and dancing in the E.M. Club on base. Remember the time Val and I dressed up in Saloon girl costumes for the Halloween Party. That was funny. We tried to do the Can-Can and we did okay for a time, but had to quit when all the beer was going to our heads.
The trip the four of us took to Deer Creek was incredible. We lay out on the rocks in the sun, played in the water, and had a really good time all day. It’s a shame the day had to come to an end so quickly.
The time you and I went up to the Cliffs to watch the sunset was a time I will never forget. We were standing on the edge, you picked me up around my waist and lifted me off the ground and I yelled, “Bobby don’t – I’m going to fall” and you laughed and said, “No you’re not” and set me down. Then you did it again, only this time I did fall. You climbed down pretty fast to see if I was okay and then you took me to the base hospital. It turned out my ankle wasn’t broken, just a bad sprain. They put me in a half-cast and gave me crutches. I know you said it was an accident. Still I can’t help but wonder about that. It was the way you laughed when we were up on that cliff that bothers me. It just didn’t sound like a normal laugh. It sounded really sadistic.
After awhile you started to get restless and you thought it would be a good idea for us to date other people once a month. You said that way we would never get tired or bored with each other. I wasn’t tired. I wasn’t bored.
When I heard that from you I got really nervous. I didn’t want to be with anyone else. Then I got this crazy idea in my head that if I were pregnant with your child, you wouldn’t want to see anyone else. I seriously thought it was the only way to hold on to you. So I went to the Dispensary on base and saw an OB/GYN and planned out when to have sex with you so I could get pregnant.
It worked!
I was so happy about having a baby and being a mom! I never counted on your reaction. You were so angry. You told me the base wasn’t big enough for the both of us and that one of us had to leave and it wasn’t going to be you.
I was really hurt. I felt so lost and rejected that I did what you wanted. I requested a discharge from the Air Force and went home to Phoenix. I was hoping that you would change your mind and contact me. You never did.
Dear Dad,
Guess What? Another record breaking moment in time, another first in history! Did you know that I am the first women in the Navy to be allowed to wear the Cracker Jack Uniform? Isn’t that so very cool? Wow!
Master Chief Brown went to Admiral Cox and received permission for me to wear a custom made Cracker Jack Uniform for 2 to 3 weeks. During this time I have to carry a clipboard and take a survey of both civilians and military personnel on their opinion of women in Cracker Jacks. I just love wearing this uniform. The survey turned out about fifty-fifty, but everyone said that I looked damn good in the uniform. I wish I could keep wearing it, but they did give me temporary recruiting duty in Phoenix and said I could wear it a couple of days over there. See you soon Dad. Love You.
Chapter 4 – Young Adulthood
Dear Dad,
I thought about going to truck driving school, but you were dead set against it since you had been a truck driver before you moved up to a Plant Supervisor with Chevron. You said, “No daughter of mine is ever going to be a truck driver! Those guys are dirty and nasty. You don’t belong around them.” Maybe I secretly wanted to find that truck driver that had attacked me and make him pay somehow.
So I decided to go to Motorcycle Mechanics Institute in Deer Valley. It was on 19th avenue just north of Deer Valley Road. It was a small technical school and my roommate Lynn and I were the only females in the school. She was younger than me and really cool. I liked hanging out with her.
Of course, it was just like in the military, being outnumbered by the guys, they always gave us a bad time about everything. Like saying any motorcycle we worked on would probably never run again and stuff like that. Instead of getting all upset which is what they wanted to see, we just smiled and kept working. I don’t think they knew how to react to that. The only thing that bothered both of us is that they used to call us B & B (for boobs and butt). They were always saying that if they could take Lynn’s chest and my butt and put it on one body they would have the perfect woman. Ha Ha Ha – very funny!
One weekend, a group of us from the school went to a pig roast out near Rio Verde – that was my downfall. I should have stayed home that weekend. I started drinking again over Barry. I had fallen for this sweet talking’ guy from Louisiana that rode an old Knucklehead. The thing was he never told me he already had a girlfriend back home. That shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did. I was always so trusting, too trusting. Booze and guys don’t mix well for me. So I was drinking again and trying to stay in school, but losing my focus and motivation.
One weekend, Lynn, Jaime, and I all went for a ride up to Payson. Lynn rode on the back of Jaime’s bike and I was riding my purple Sportster with the pink star. We were only going to stop in Payson for a few beers and when we pulled up to the bar, the axle bolt on my front wheel fell off. Jaime fixed it with a bolt from the foot peg so I could get home, but he told me I would have to be really careful on the way home. He said it was just a temporary fix. We stayed in the bar for several hours shooting pool and going through several pitchers of beer and by the time we came out I forgot all about the foot peg bolt on the axle.
We started going down the mountains toward Phoenix and I was getting impatient with the traffic because I wanted to go faster. Then I got this great idea, or so it seemed at the time, that I could fly down the mountain if I stayed on the double yellow lines in the middle of the road. So I did. I left Jaime and Lynn in the dust and hit 90 to 95 in places where I could really open up the throttle. The adrenalin rush along with all the beer was making me feel like I was flying on cloud nine. I was invincible.
When I pulled up in the parking lot of Lynn and I’s apartment and put the kickstand down, the axle bolt – the temporary one that I was supposed to be careful with, just popped off. Oh Crap! I forgot all about it. I sat down on the curb and stared at the bike. I thought about what if the bolt came off while I was flying down that mountain and I shuddered. I sat there staring at that axle and bolt for the longest time. I couldn’t do this again. I had to get back to the meetings.
I dropped out of school, which I know you hated, Dad, but I felt that I had to do it. I didn’t get sober right away though, because guess what? I was drinking at Gary’s on Hatcher and here comes this big guy riding up on a White Harley. There he is a Knight on a white horse. His name was D.J. He was like a Mountain Man. I knew I would be safe with him.
Chapter 5 – Middle Age
Dear Jason L.,
I can’t seem to thank you enough for helping me get started at the Comedy Store Amateur nights. I wanted to try, but I didn’t really know how. I came week after week and watched all the comedians getting up on Sunday nights in the Original Room. Some were terrible, but some were really funny. You helped me write and practice my first set. Then I met Bobby L. and he was so encouraging – I was excited about getting up on stage.
On the night of my first performance ever, I remember sitting in the back of the room and waiting for Bobby to call my name. I had asked him specifically to let me go up early when the room was nearly empty so I could get used to holding the mic. He just said, “Do you trust me?” and I said that I did. The room kept filling up as comedian after comedian went up to perform. Then he called up the first Pro, a girl from San Diego. I was looking at Bobby and thinking what the hell are you doing? Sad to say she totally bombed and got barely a giggle on one joke. That is such a horrible feeling, I felt so bad for her.
Then all of a sudden Bobby calls me up, I could have strangled him at that moment. The room was packed and I had never performed any comedy before and I was so scared that I couldn’t stop my body from shaking. I managed a weak smile and grabbed the mic. As I started into my set, the audience laughed at everything I said. Someone told me later they thought the shaking was part of the character. It was only a three minute set, but it seemed like three hours. It went so well that I came off of that stage waltzing on air. That was the best natural high ever.
I continued coming to the Comedy Store almost every Sunday night and doing well every time. Then I started to get bored with that set and wanted to add in different things. You warned me not to try that. You said the way to go about adding new material is to do your set, the stuff you know that works and add in one or two jokes in the middle to see if they work. Of course, hard-headed stubborn me, didn’t listen. I had written this whole new set that I thought was really funny and when I took the stage this one night at the Comedy Store, I totally bombed. It was so humiliating and painful. I learned to listen and follow directions after that.
You helped me write several more sets and I had a solid five minutes. This was really cool for me. I was doing the open mic’s at Jennifer’s, Hallenbeck’s, and The Laugh Factory on Tuesday nights. After a while though the strains of single parenthood caught up with me and I wasn’t able to get out and perform as much as I wanted. I felt so guilty for leaving my daughter home alone at night. Even though she was a responsible teenager, I felt like I was supposed to be at home with her.
Thank you Jason for all of your help and encouragement. You proved to be a true friend.
Chapter 6 – Healing & Recovery
I spent years of my life wishing that the Fix-It Fairy would fly down and tap me on the head with her magic wand and make me normal. Or wishing that I could find her secret castle and I could hold her hostage until she would give me a magic potion to make me normal. Then, of course, I would be able to find my Knight-In-Shining Armor, my Prince Charming, who would sweep me off my feet so that we could ride away on his White Horse and live happily ever after.
After many heartbreaks and disappointments, I learned that neither the Fix-It Fairy, nor her secret castle, nor Prince Charming, existed. To expect a man to do what only God can do in my life is to set myself and him up for failure.
There is no man on earth who can make me happy 24/7, read my mind and know what I want each minute, jump at my beck and call, erase all the emotional wounds and scars left by others and cure me of alcoholism, PTSD and Bipolar. Not even my hero, my Dad.
Thank God I did not have to face all of my problems at once. If someone would have told me that: I was an alcoholic, an addict, a survivor of sexual abuse, had PTSD and Bipolar and that to have any type of functioning life I would have to accept and deal with all of this at one time – I probably would have been pushed over the edge that I came so close to, so many times.
For the better part of my adult life I chose to live in denial, because it was more comfortable than dealing with the stark reality of how broken and damaged I actually was on the inside.
Once a tornado has ripped through a town leaving damage and destruction in its wake, the cleanup begins one piece at a time. The healing process and long term recovery work the same way. The devastation has to be cleaned up and repaired one piece at a time.
As anyone who has ever worked on a restoration team after a crisis will tell you, once you begin picking up the wreckage it is common to find that large pieces of debris are intertwined – each affecting the other. The pieces must be removed carefully or more damage will result.
Since each area needing to be addressed in the recovery process affects the other, this chapter is divided into sections.
The first section deals with alcoholism and/or addiction. Any recovery from traumas or mental illness will be quickly undermined if an alcoholic or addict begins to drink or use again every time the process get uncomfortable.
The second section addresses Bi-polar. In many families, bipolar is passed down from generation to generation. It is not just something you wake up with, however the manifestation of the disorder can take years for the symptoms to appear.
The third section concerns Rape, Sexual Traumas and/or Abuse. The people in any victim’s life need to understand that one does not “just get over it.” The mental and emotional scars from such experiences run deep and last a lifetime.
The fourth section explains Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTS or PTSD). This is a condition that can be triggered at any time. Recovery is an ongoing lifelong process.
The final section speaks about Spiritual recovery. Not religion. Spirituality. There is a difference.
Author Bio:
Georganne Bickle is the author of “Dear Men, What I really wanted to say…” (2014), “AFFIRMATIONS: For Every Area of Life” (2013), “A Good Brain Washing” (2012) and “Dear Men: A True Story” (2008).
She is a Native Phoenician and a veteran of the AZ Air National Guard, U.S. Air Force and U.S. Navy with Honorable Discharges from all three branches. Her heritage includes Italian, German, and Choctaw with current membership in the Choctaw Nation of Oklahoma. She graduated from Phoenix College with an Associate of Arts Degree in 2008 and Regent University with a Bachelor of Arts Degree in 2012.
Her background includes over twenty years as a volunteer mentor with people in recovery, as well as current sobriety of more than nineteen years. Her public appearance experience includes speaking and conducting workshops for 12 Step Recovery Programs, Conferences on Domestic Violence, Professional Women’s Groups, other professional and private organizations. Additionally, Georganne performed stand-up comedy on the amateur circuit for a period of three years in a variety of venues in both the Los Angeles and Phoenix areas.
She has successfully learned to manage and/or overcome: PTSD, Bipolar, Military and Civilian Sexual Traumas and Alcoholism. Her past volunteer experience included coaching a T-Ball team and acting as a Girl Scout Co-Leader. Her current volunteer experience includes working with a variety of veteran and women’s organizations. She is a current member of a local church and WAVES National which is now transitioning into Military Women Across the Nation (MWAN).
In Maids of Misfortune: A Victorian San Francisco Mystery, by M. Louisa Locke, it’s the summer of 1879, and Annie Fuller, a young San Francisco widow, is in trouble. Annie’s husband squandered her fortune before committing suicide five years earlier, and one of his creditors is now threatening to take the boardinghouse she owns to pay off a debt.
Annie Fuller also has a secret. She supplements her income by giving domestic and business advice as Madam Sibyl, one of San Francisco’s most exclusive clairvoyants, and one of Madam Sibyl’s clients, Matthew Voss, has died. The police believe it is suicide brought upon by bankruptcy, but Annie believes Voss has been murdered and that his assets have been stolen.
Nate Dawson has a problem. As the Voss family lawyer, he would love to believe that Matthew Voss didn’t leave his grieving family destitute. But that would mean working with Annie Fuller, a woman who alternatively attracts and infuriates him as she shatters every notion he ever had of proper ladylike behavior.
Sparks fly as Anne and Nate pursue the truth about the murder of Matthew Voss in this light-hearted historical mystery set in the foggy gas-lit world of Victorian San Francisco.
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
The inspiration for my Victorian San Francisco Mystery sees (this is the first book in the series) came nearly 30 years ago as I worked on my dissertation on working women in the Far West. I wanted to write a series of books with a female protagonist who would go undercover in different jobs that Victorian women held to solve mysteries. Maids of Misfortune features my protagonist, Annie Fuller, going undercover as a domestic servant.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
One of the main jobs held by widowed women was boarding house keeping–so I gave my widow, Annie Fuller a boarding house to run. At the same time one of the most interesting occupations held in San Francisco in the 1870s and 1880s, was the occupation of clairvoyant (fortunetellers, trance mediums, etc), so I decided to have Annie supplement her income by being a pretend clairvoyant. Nate Dawson, a local lawyer (who she meets when involved in her first case) become the romantic interest.
Author Bio:
M. Louisa Locke, a retired professor of U.S women’s history, features women’s occupations in her Victorian San Francisco Mystery series. In Maids of Misfortune, Annie Fuller, a widowed boarding house keeper and pretend clairvoyant, goes undercover as a domestic servant to solve a murder, in Uneasy Spirits, Annie and San Francisco lawyer Nate Dawson investigate fraudulent trance mediums, and in Bloody Lessons, they try to determine who is attacking San Francisco teachers. The fourth book in the series, Deadly Proof, due out in early 2015, is about women in the San Francisco printing industry. Dr. Locke is an active member of the Alliance of Independent Authors, a member of the Board of the Historical Authors Cooperative, and lives in San Diego with her husband and assorted animals.
Four years ago it was pure Hollywood – the windswept beach, the whirlwind romance, the runaway marriage. Unfortunately, the ride into the sunset didn’t survive the publication of the bride’s tell-all book two months after she said ”I do.”
Reclusive venture capitalist Morgan Riley isn’t interested in fame. He prefers a quiet life in the suburbs. For his daughter’s sake, he agrees to give his notorious wife another chance to be part of their family. Even though she’s back at home and fulfilling all his late-night fantasies, he can’t help wonder if she misses her high-profile lifestyle and famous friends.
Everyone knows Jessica Sinclair. She’s that girl on the cover of all the tabloids. As a Hollywood insider, Jessica has spent her life partying with A-list celebrities, shopping on Rodeo Drive, and living through scandal after scandal. When her estranged husband offers her a second chance at an ‘All-American’ lifestyle, she can’t pass up her shot at real happiness. Back in suburbia, Jessica spends her nights in sexy role-play hoping Morgan will overlook her deficiencies as a homemaker. She spends her days attending P.T.A. meetings, burning cookies, and asking herself, ”What would June Cleaver do?” More to the point, what will Morgan do when Jessica winds up back in the tabloids – with his teenage daughter right next to her?
What people are saying about INFAMOUS:
“Simply fantastic! Infamous has everything I love in a romance: witty dialogue, steamy sex, and great characters. Preston has crafted a fun and flirty book that I couldn’t put down!”–Emily McKay – Bestselling author of All He Ever Wanted and The Farm
“With INFAMOUS Irene Preston immerses us into the Hollywood world of Glitz, Glamour and Scandal with well-developed characters, sizzling hot sex scenes and engaging storyline.” — Harlequin Junkie Romance Reviews
“A deliciously fun and sexy tale, brimming with Hollywood glamour and a hero that is to die for.” — Farrah Rochon – 2012 RITA finalist – Author of I’ll Catch You
“It’s a Hershey’s Kiss of a story: a perfect treat after a long day.” — Books with Benefits
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
There are a lot of answers to this question, but one of them is Paris Hilton.
I’m not generally a celebrity watcher, but I caught Paris on the news one day after the sex-tape scandal. She was apologizing for the embarrassment she’d caused her mother. Right then, she stopped being a celebrity and became a real person for me. No matter how much you love the spotlight, or what kind of relationship you have with your mother, that situation has got to be a little awkward.
That idea inspired my heroine, Jessica, who always seems to be in the tabloids – she’s famous for all the wrong reasons. I wondered what it might be like if she woke up one day and realized she wanted a different kind of lifestyle. Socialite, meet soccer dad!
I hope you will enjoy walking a mile in Jessica’s mile-high stilettos.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
If I only knew…. Usually I get an idea for a single scene – the whole book develops from there. I get to know my characters as I write, the same way you would get to know people you meet in real life. They totally rule my writing and are always surprising me by doing something unexpected.
Book Excerpt/Sample
It was Carnival in Venice.
Mardi Gras on the corner of Bourbon and Royal.
Tonight was pure Hollywood—and she was buying back in.
Jessica Sinclair stood in a scene straight out of one of her books–beautiful people, champagne, a posh ballroom in one of the city’s most exclusive hotels. The entire room had been transformed for the night into a romantic Hollywood fantasy of Carnival, complete with backdrops of old-world streets and frescoed balconies. There was even the enigmatic hero–remote and aloof in black tie.
She spotted him the moment he entered the room. He paused in the doorway just as she looked up. For a second, all the sound in the crowded ballroom receded and it was just the two of them in a vast well of silence. Someone jostled her elbow, and all the noise and revelry crashed back in around her.
“Excuse me,” she said to the man next to her. “I need to have a word with Kate while she’s still coherent.”
She spent the next hour circulating. Laughing. Chatting. Dancing. Through it all, her eyes found him in the crowd—as though he were the only solid thing in the room and everyone else merely butterflies flitting in and out of his orbit.
She grimaced at the fanciful thought. She was in an odd mood, but hadn’t she come here to step, at least for the night, back into the fantasy? With her latest book off to the publisher, she was due an evening of indulgence. Only somehow, it was harder than she had expected to ignore the Styrofoam and spray paint and enjoy the pretty façade.
In the old days, she would have started the party well before she hit the ballroom and not counted it a success until every eye was on her. Tonight, when she should be letting loose, she caught herself automatically storing away information, impressions, and snippets of conversation. Half of Hollywood would give their eyeteeth to be at this party, and she felt like the narrator in one of her own books—an integral part of the story, but not an actual player. She spotted a dark head in the crowd and felt a little frisson of excitement.
It wasn’t fair. In this crowd, he should blend right into the woodwork. Was he even handsome? He didn’t have the glossy kind of image most of her male friends cultivated or even the scruffy bad-boy look that was so sexy. His dark hair was cut in a style that screamed boardroom rather than bedroom. Even the Armani tux was the most conservative cut available. He should have been completely unremarkable here amid the glittering throng. Instead, he was the one who captured attention. Everyone else seemed overdressed, overloud, and indistinguishable in their glitz and glitter.
On one side of the room, her father, J.T. Sinclair, was holding court. No champagne for him. He lifted his tumbler of scotch in a salute as she joined him.
“So, Jessica, what do you think of my latest little project?”
“Little project?” She snorted. J.T. didn’t have a modest bone in his body, and he was fishing for a compliment. “You know it’s a huge success. The Carnival theme for the premiere and the after-party was inspired. The reviews won’t even matter once the pictures hit the press—they’ll be better than the trailers for publicity. Was it your idea?”
“Ah, well, if not, it was my genius to hire whoever did think of it.”
It took more than genius to pull off a success like this. It took a good measure of power. In a town where you were only as good as your last big hit, Daddy maintained a permanent rung at the top of the ladder.
If J.T. Sinclair had wanted the stars from his new movie, Masque, to show up at the premiere wearing sackcloth and ashes, every top designer in the city would have rushed to design sackcloth. Instead, the Carnival costumes were over-the-top glamorous. Jeweled masks and elaborate headpieces topped most of the outfits with gown designs ranging from opulent period knock-offs to risqué modern designs. Some of the men were a bit more restrained, but almost all sported at least a silk mask in deference to the theme.
She caught a flash of black and her smile faltered as she scanned the group of people a few feet away. J.T. was already turning to someone else in his knot of sycophants and she drifted away from him as she searched the crowd.
Close now. So close. Her heartbeat picked up just a little—an extra rat-a-tat-tat that she tried to ignore.
“Jess!”
An outrageously handsome face filled her vision. Blond hair and an impeccable tan blocked out any hint of sober black she might have seen across the room. She was swooped into a dramatic dip ending in an equally dramatic kiss full on the lips.
“Kiss, kiss, darling.” Mason grinned wickedly as he set her back on her feet. Blue eyes glittered through his silk mask.
No boring black for Mason. The white mask with its gold trim matched the rest of his attire right down to the gold lace on his shirt. It should have looked ridiculous, but with his tousled hair and laughing eyes he somehow managed to look dashing instead. Utterly charming and photogenic—it was only part of what made Mason Knight one of the top male stars in Hollywood.
Mason snagged two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter. He drained his in a few gulps as she took a small sip of her own.
“Drink up, luv,” he urged. “We are celebrating!” He waved the empty glass to encompass the room. “Another blockbuster hit for J.T., fame and glory for everyone. Why, I am practically guaranteed to double my not inconsiderable fan mail based on this one movie.” He sighed theatrically and continued in a wide-eyed stage whisper. “They send pictures, you know. Thousands of pimple-faced teen-age girls go to sleep every night dreaming of me—the only thing to give light to their lonely lives.”
“Be nice, Mason. You know you live for the hero worship.”
“Do I?” He swayed a little, as if considering the prospect. “Ah, Jess, you’re right as always.” He deposited his empty glass on a nearby table. Almost magically, another waiter appeared with more champagne. “Yes, indeed, what are a few white lies to gain the adoration of millions?”
She narrowed her eyes as he lifted the second glass and drained half of it in one gulp. Mason had the metabolism of a hummingbird. Despite his bad-boy reputation, she hadn’t seen him really drunk in years. Tonight, his brilliant blue eyes were feverishly bright and his normally exuberant manner seemed too exaggerated.
Concerned, she wound her arm through his and tugged him toward the French doors at the end of the room.
“Come outside, we could both use some fresh air.”
He leered down at her. “Trying to get me alone, darling? You only have to ask.”
He followed her willingly enough, however. Another cause for concern. Mason generally had to be pried from the center of attention with a crowbar.
She managed to get him across the room and outside without interruption. As she pulled the door shut behind her, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She glanced around to see if anyone had noticed them leaving, but J.T. was taking the stage for a speech and all eyes were on him. She tugged Mason away from the doorway and into the shadows at the edge of the balcony.
“Ready for a snuggle, snookums?”
She slapped his groping hand away and glared up at him.
“That’s enough, Mason. What’s wrong?”
He pouted at her over the rim of his champagne flute.
“You might as well spill it. You only flirt with me like this when you’re upset.” And never in private.
He sighed and the handsome rogue disappeared in the droop of his shoulders as he turned away from her. “They’re all leaving me, Jess.”
She was alarmed to hear his words slurring. “Don’t be so cryptic; what do you mean?”
“Kit’s going to New York. Broadway.” He snorted. “Stupid, gay musical theatre, as if anyone wants to see that. Seven performances a week for God knows how long. And Susan, my sweet Susan has been making eyes at some pious frigging doctor she met at a charity event. He hasn’t even got any money to speak of, just a lot of moral mumbo-jumbo about inner city kids. She hasn’t said anything to me yet, but it’s only a matter time before she’s reviewing the out-clause in the prenup.” Mason paused for a little hiccup. “And here I’ll be, alone with my adoring public. It’s really too trite for words.”
She slipped her arms around him, smiling into his back as she murmured, “Poor little rich boy, hmm?”
“Not funny,” he muttered.
“No, I know. But Mase, if you think Susan has found someone else, have you considered. . . .”
“No,” he said vehemently.
“Well, you can’t exactly expect Kit to stick around, then, can you?”
“Yes. No. Hell, I don’t know.” He twisted in her arms so he was facing her. “What am I going to do with myself, Jess?”
“Same as we’ve always done, live with our choices. If you don’t like the ones you’ve made, make different ones.”
He sighed and lowered his forehead to rest against hers.
“I’ve still got you.”
She reached up to stroke his cheek, “Come on, Mr. Wonderful. Let’s get you back to the party.”
Just then the doors opened, their sheer curtains blowing out so light and noise from inside spilled onto the balcony. A tall figure stood backlit in the doorway, a featureless silhouette. She recognized him instantly. Her fantasy hero had finally caught up with her.
“Knight.” His deep voice rolled out into the darkness. “I thought I saw you come out here. Your wife is looking for you.”
From behind him, a slender figure pushed her way through the doorway.
“Oh, Jessica, thank goodness he’s with you.” Susan Knight wafted across the balcony to bestow a gentle kiss on Jessica’s cheek. Her eyes sought Jessica’s in the darkness.
Jessica patted her shoulder. “You know our boy, just a little post-wrap blues.”
Susan smiled uncertainly at Mason. “Did you want to leave early?”
Instantly, the charming rogue was back.
“Jess is being a big mother hen. I have a case of Dom riding on what time Kate climbs on stage and wrestles the mic away from the band. Come along and let’s see if we can give her a nudge in the right direction. . . .”
Mason pulled Susan back into the ballroom. J.T. had finished his speech and the band was pounding out a fast-paced dance number.
Jessica turned away. Ignoring the other occupant of the balcony, she leaned against the balustrade and stared into the night. Spread out beneath her were the hotel’s pool and gardens. During the day, a restaurant served breakfast and poolside lunch, but at this hour the tables were dark and only the gardens were lit. Tiny lights along the paths and through the trees gave the whole area a fairy-tale whimsy. A few couples strolled in the moonlight, but the summer heat kept most of the guests inside.
“Still quite the trio, aren’t you?” Morgan’s cool voice interrupted her thoughts. “Doesn’t Susan ever get tired of finding you in Knight’s arms?”
Jessica let the words drift past her on the warm air. Another time she knew they would hurt—sometime in the future when the odd magic of the night had worn off. For now, they simply floated past her, stray bits of sound, as she concentrated on the timbre of his voice whispering over her senses.
She lifted one shoulder in a negligent shrug, not bothering to answer.
*
Morgan sighed in frustration. Seeing her again was nothing like he had expected. It was worse and better in more ways than he could count. Tonight had started out as an impulse. Somehow he had never been dropped from J.T.’s guest list and he had been sure she would be here. But he had lied to himself about all his reasons for coming and now his penance was standing right here on the balcony with him, acting like she barely remembered his name.
He drank in her appearance in the moonlight. Long black hair cascaded dramatically down her back. Instead of plain elastic ties for her elaborate mask, strands of sparkling jewels glittered in the glossy tresses. Her blue and black gown dipped low in the back, exposing her pale skin almost to the cleft of her buttocks. She looked wild and untouchable—a fey princess dropped into the mortal plane. His fists clenched by his side as he remembered Knight’s golden head bent close to hers. He had no use for fantasy, and he knew for a fact that Jessica was eminently touchable.
He moved closer, almost against his will, until he was just behind her—one hand on the balustrade, trapping her between his body and the wide stone rail. They were almost touching. Almost, but still a ghost of air whispered between them. Her perfume enveloped him, pulling him even closer. His head dipped to the hollow of her neck, and he allowed himself to inhale slowly.
It was a mistake. Her scent surrounded him like incense, dark and exotic. The balcony and the hotel disappeared, and a mélange of images assaulted him—his hands on her everywhere, silken skin sliding over his body, Jessica rising over him with the moonlight glowing on her pale skin as he plunged into the heat of her body.
Jessica turned, her breasts brushing his chest as she did. Her voice was low and husky.
“Come dance with me, Morgan.”
She stepped past him and back toward the ballroom, not looking to see if he followed.
Like a fool, he did.
Inside, the party was in full swing. Lights flashed on the dance floor and the music throbbed. Around him, the cream of Hollywood swayed and gyrated—perfect bodies moving in perfect time with the pulse of the music. A blond starlet with an improbably round bosom clutched his arm. Luscious red lips pouted up at him and there was open invitation in the eyes behind the feathers and marabou as she bumped against him. He swept her hand aside as Jessica began to dance.
No one really looks like that when they dance—like the music was made for them, part of them. Sure, in the movies, but it’s all editing and choreography. No one dances like that in real life.
But there was Jessica, right in front of him, yanking him into the fantasy. The other dancers, surreal in their masks and painted faces, melted into a kaleidoscope of color whirling around her.
He moved forward, irresistibly drawn to her. She circled, just out of reach. She moved with wanton abandon, brushing her body against his. He reached again, his fingertips just brushing the soft skin of her arm. . . . And she was gone. She had to be doing it on purpose. Taunting him. Staying just out of reach. Just as he felt his control about to snap, the gods smiled on him and the song ended.
The lights dimmed even lower and the band segued into a slow instrumental.
He caught her slender wrist and yanked her against him. She gasped.
“Payback,” he whispered. She shivered. He wondered if it was fear or anticipation.
She didn’t resist, but closed her eyes as he pulled her into his arms. She twined her arms around his neck and allowed him to press the length of their bodies together. In her heels, her head fit perfectly on his shoulder. He could feel her warm breath against his neck. It was unbearably erotic.
His arms tightened involuntarily around her. He cursed, then surrendered to the inevitable. He shoved one thigh between her legs, cupped her bottom and pulled her against him. Instead of pushing him away, she ran her tongue along the pulse in his neck. Just a little flick, like she was tasting. He pulled her higher onto his thigh and she moaned and wriggled against his erection.
What was he supposed to be accomplishing? He couldn’t remember any more and wasn’t sure he cared.
He buried his face in her hair and breathed in the drugging scent as he held her hips against him. Then she was clenching frantically around him, her hands fisted in his hair. He was just about to go over with her when he realized what was happening and where they were.
He shoved her away.
“That’s enough.” He fought for control; fought to keep what he was feeling off his face. “I won’t be part of one of your public scenes.”
“In this crowd? We’re hardly doing anything they haven’t all seen before. It would barely cause a ripple if you stripped me naked on the hors d’oeuvres table.”
Christ.
“Speak for yourself.” He could barely manage to get the words out. “Exhibitionism isn’t my style.”
Jessica’s gaze wandered down his body, lingered pointedly on his crotch. “Really? It seems to be doing it for you right now.”
She stepped toward him, catching his lapels and pulling herself close to whisper in his ear. “You know you want me. Right now my panties are dripping . . . tonight, you can have me any way you want.”
He couldn’t think, much less respond. At her husky words, every bit of blood drained out of his brain. He had been propositioned plenty of times, but somehow when Jessica did it. . . .
He looked down at her. She smiled, her eyes dark with arousal and promise. His hands tightened around her upper arms as he focused helplessly on her lips.
Jessica swayed toward him.
“Not here.” Then he was cutting through the crowd, practically dragging her along with him.
In the elevator, he fumbled for the room key that would allow them access to the suites on the top floors. His hands felt big and awkward as they swiped the key through the reader. If you stripped me naked on the hors d’oeuvres table. . . .Christ. She always had a way of knocking him off balance, of peeling away every last bit of self control. She had thrown the words out so casually, and as soon as she said them he had pictured doing just that—imagined shoving aside the crudités and shrimp cocktail and spreading her out like his own personal feast.
The doors closed and she was in his arms. He pushed her against the elevator wall, his tongue thrusting urgently into her mouth. She wound around him, humming incoherent words of encouragement. They weren’t nearly close enough. She tilted her head back, inviting his tongue deeper. He was drowning in the taste of her when he felt her hands slide down between them. His body jerked.
They were still in the elevator. He was damned if he was going to make love in a public elevator. He managed to wrest her hands away from him and anchored them above her head with one of his own.
“Not here.” Could she hear the desperation in his voice?
She tilted her head back against the wall. With her arms up over her head, the motion thrust her breasts out. It was impossible not to look down; easier to stop breathing than to keep his eyes above her neck.
Her nipples were clearly visible under the thin silk halter top of her dress. He watched his own hands pushing aside the fabric, heard his own labored breathing as his thumb brushed across the tight peak. He wasn’t aware of lowering his head until the sweet taste exploded on his tongue and he heard her moan.
The swish of the elevator doors slapped him back to sanity. He jerked the scrap of material back over her breast and sucked in some deep breaths. Was there a flash of triumph in her eyes? Jesus.
The bland normality of the hallway cleared his head. What the hell was he doing? They had barely said two words to each other. Nothing about this night was going according to plan. He had to establish some rules. He had to let her know who was in charge or he was lost.
He looked down at her. What was she thinking? Was it so easy for her? Was it a game, a diversion? He held the door open. Waited. She hesitated, then flashed him a confident smile as she stepped past him.
Inside, he shrugged out of his jacket. “Second thoughts, Jessica?”
Brave words. He wasn’t sure if he could really let her go at this point.
She shook her head and raised her chin a little until she looked him right in the eye.
No second chances.
He put his hand behind her head and pulled her to him. She tasted wild, and sweet, and he couldn’t get enough of her. Just like that, just with a kiss, he felt himself going under.
He pulled back a little. See? In control.
“What was it you wanted in the elevator, Jessie?” He let his thumb brush across the silk covering one nipple. “Was it this?”
She clutched at his shirt, stared up at him with dazed eyes.
“No?” He rained kisses along her jaw to her ear. “This then?” He began a slow circle around the nipple with his thumb.
She twisted against him, standing on tiptoe and tugging at his hair to pull his head down.
She was so beautiful. It hurt to look at her. He laughed softly to keep from moaning.
He leaned closer, so his lips just brushed her ear as he whispered, “Tell me, Jessie.”
“Your mouth,” she gasped.
It took everything he had to step away from her as she swayed toward him. “Well, then, let’s see what you’re offering. Take off your dress.”
He should have known better. She brushed aside his attempt at intimidation. With a defiant glance, she unfastened the clasp at the back of her neck and let the dress slither to the floor. When her hand went to her Carnival mask he shook his head.
“Leave it.” The words came out like gravel through his throat.
She inclined her head in acknowledgement, then raised her arms and turned in a graceful pirouette.
He forced air into his lungs. He was way out of his league. Stupid to think he could get the upper hand with her. He had expected a thong under the dress, but his imagination had obviously been too conservative. She was wearing what appeared to be a handful of ribbons that attached to a minuscule triangle of material in the front. The ribbons radiated out over her perfect ass into a tiny bow, then drew his eyes to where they disappeared below. In front of him, she pivoted proudly like a pagan goddess in her high heels, ribbons, and the jeweled mask.
*
Jessica stood her ground. She had been in front of cameras all her life. She knew that she was beautiful; that she could make him want her. Morgan’s hot gaze and flushed face told her she wasn’t wrong. At least she still had that small bit of power. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough, but for tonight it would do. She took a single step toward him and drew his head down to her.
When her knees buckled, she felt his arm circle her waist and he lowered her to the floor. His tongue circled and flicked at her nipple, while his hand reached down to cup her. He tugged at the damp ribbons of her thong, creating an unbearable pressure against her swollen flesh.
She lifted herself against his tormenting hand, trying to ease the ache he was creating. Immediately, he removed both his hand and his mouth.
“Shhh, not yet,” he murmured.
She shifted toward him, reaching for his zipper. As in the elevator, he captured her hands and pulled them above her head.
“Uh, uh. Naughty Jessica, not until I say.”
After that, the torture began. Morgan’s hands and mouth were busy, first on her breasts, then lower, pushing her legs wide and stroking her to a fever pitch. He scraped the ribbons of her thong against her most sensitive skin, pushed them aside to plunge his tongue or his fingers into her depths. Each time, just when the bright promise of her orgasm was upon her, he pulled away. Again and again he moved up her body to torment her breasts or kiss her deeply.
“You taste so good, Jessie,” he said in his dark voice. “I’m drunk on you. Taste yourself and see how good it is.”
Finally, she was sobbing in frustration, trembling with desire. Despite his erotic words and the evidence of his erection, he was still fully clothed and in control.
“Please,” she whispered.
He stilled next to her.
“Please, what, Jessie?”
“Please, come inside of me,” she moaned.
He shifted next to her, reaching down to unzip and free himself. Then he was looking down and she was trapped in his gaze. He was poised just at her entrance. She strained her hips toward him, trying to impale herself on him.
“Say my name, Jessie,” he said. “Say my name and tell me what you want.”
“I want you, Morgan. Please,” she begged. “Please, Morgan, I need you inside of me.”
He gave a harsh groan and plunged into her. It was all she needed. She fell into the darkness and the fairy lights exploded around her.
*
Jessica came back to herself as Morgan picked her up off the floor and carried her into the next room. He deposited her on the bed, then pulled off his tie and began unbuttoning his shirt.
She struggled for some composure.
“That was nice,” she said. “It must be late, though, I’d better get back downstairs.”
Morgan tossed his shirt aside and began pulling off his pants. Her gaze locked on him in shock. He was still fully aroused.
“Nice?” He lifted one eyebrow as he shed the rest of his clothes. “Oh, no, Jessie,” he said. “You promised I could have you any way I wanted. I’ve just gotten started.”
*
Hours later, Jessica slid cautiously out of the big bed. Her body was sore, but sated in ways she couldn’t have anticipated at the beginning of the night. Quietly, she padded back into the sitting room and slipped into the silk dress. Giving in to impulse, she tiptoed back to the bedroom door for a final look at her dark lover.
Moonlight from the open curtains washed the color from the room. In a tangle of sheets, Morgan’s big body was the only solid thing in a ghostly landscape. Jessica knew lots of handsome men, but somehow none of them ever seemed quite as real as Morgan. What would he do if she curled herself against his solid warmth and begged him to let her stay as she had begged him to take her?
She straightened and turned back toward the door. She was sex and scandal. She might be fun for a night, but he would not want her in the morning. She would spare them both that. Carrying her shoes, she let herself out of the suite.
*
In the bedroom, Morgan listened to the quiet snick of the door. Her exotic scent lingered in the room. It was a taunting reminder that he was there and she was gone. He could command her body for a night, but she would slip through his fingers in the light of day. Rolling onto his back, he stared sightlessly at the ceiling as his beautiful wife fled back to her glittering life.
Author Bio:
Irene Preston has to write romances-after all, she’s living one! As a starving college student, she met her dream man who whisked her away on a romantic honeymoon across Europe. Today they live in the beautiful hill country outside of Austin, Texas where Dream Man is still working hard to make sure she never has to take off her rose-colored glasses.
Violence and impending hope collide in Ryan K. Howard’s edgy, controversial, and addictive debut.
For Benjamin Wilder, it was just another day in the life of a twelve-year-old boy…
– Waking up with a fresh black-eye, compliments of the Rabid Dog: CHECK
– Taking care of his drunken mother before school: CHECK
– Risking life-and-limb to sneak out for a sleepover (and getting caught): CHECK
– Witnessing two psychopaths commit unspeakable acts: CHECK
– Running for his life and assuming a new identity in the process: CHECK
– Living happily ever after: YEAH, NOT EXACTLY
Black Machetes is a powerful, page-turning psychological thriller—at times both shocking and endearing—written with gritty cinematic tones that paint a painfully intimate portrait of a world framed by abuse, tragedy, and inhibited love.
What reviewers are saying…
“This book in its entirety is a gritty and compelling tale of triumph in the face of adversity, and the horrors that some have to deal with and overcome to get there.” —The Bookie Monster @ Amazon
“I could not put this book down. It was believable, heartbreaking, funny, tragic and heartwarming.” —Donna @ Goodreads
“This book is a ‘page turner’ – I couldn’t put it down – the style of writing was clear and sharp, and the story well-woven.” —Lorna Kennedy @ Goodreads
“A very quick read. It will make you laugh, cry, cringe, and everything in between. A real emotional roller coaster. Read this book!!” —Michelle @ Goodreads
Book Synopsis…
Benjamin Wilder grew up with sparse shelter, infested provisions, and constant abuse dealt to him by his stepfather: Jessup—a.k.a. the Rabid Dog. Without a sober mother to defend him from the Rabid Dog’s wrath, Ben finds reprieve and adventure in a club of misfit boys called the Black Machetes. But the world as Ben knows it comes to an end when he witnesses an act so psychologically appalling that it forces him to run for his life. He travels as far away as he can until fate steps in and guides him to a small town where he finds the help he needs to assume a new identity and live a life he could only imagine before.
Years after trying to bury the demons from his past, Ben seems to finally settle into a sense of normalcy. But his world continually gets turned upside-down by a series of discoveries, revealing that the evil from his childhood has never stopped cursing him—having over the years destroyed everyone he ever cared for. When the ticking time-bomb within Ben’s psyche finally detonates with a fumed vengeance, it pushes his wife and unborn child into the very clutches of the same malevolence that has forever haunted him. In the end, Ben must again face those demons from his past in order to save his true love, and ultimately his own sanity.
Bottom line: This book delivers on its promise and readers who enjoy intriguing characters and viscerally-visual narrative will not be disappointed.
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
The original concept was actually a paranormal short that was inspired by the piney woods of East Texas, which can get pretty scary when you are alone in them. Alas, the story grew and transformed into a realistic novel because oftentimes reality is far more tragic and horrific than fantasy.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
The characters as well as many of the scenes were conceptually driven by childhood memories and the tragic, heart-breaking experiences of real people that I’ve known through the years. Each character took on a life of its own, which is how it should be, right? Ben, the main character, is someone I wish I could be more like. Maddie, his love, is modeled after my true (real-life) love. Ben and I both don’t stand a chance against them, so we both just have to succumb to the smarter species–and we both realize we’re lucky to be able to.
Book Excerpt/Sample
Author Bio:
Ryan K. Howard was born in Orange County, California but spent most of his adolescence growing up in the rural region of East Texas. Raised by a hard working single-mother with a restless spirit, Ryan frequently moved with his mom to help her chase the next dream. By the time he reached adulthood, he’d already called numerous locations home—from the country life of the Deep South to the laid back culture of the West Coast, rinse and then repeat. Ryan inherited the moving habit from his mom and continues the tradition of relocating residences to this very day (and with head-scratching regularity). He currently divides his time between Southern California and the Pacific Northwest. The gravitational pull between the two locales is sourced by love from his fiancé and best friend of three years who lives in Southern California and then by his kids who live in the Seattle area. While the frequent change of scenery probably seems unstable to the naked eye, Ryan is quick to point out (more to convince himself, mind you) that uber-artistic energy is drawn from his eclectic experiences. It’s hard to argue that claim as it shows in the cinematic imagery and heartbreakingly-genuine interactions that ring true in his debut novel Black Machetes.
As mentioned, Ryan’s primary writing base is Seattle where he lives with his two youngest kiddos along with a house full of ghosts that get pretty active when his early drafts are read aloud to them.
**Winner of “Best New Adult” and “Best Series” in the 2014 eFestival of Words – Best of Independent eBook Awards**
When college student Rena Collins finds herself nose-to-chest with the campus outcast, she’s stunned. Wallace Blake is everything she’s ever wanted in a man–except he can’t touch her. His uncontrollable strength, a so-called gift from his bloodline, makes every interaction dangerous. And with a secret, supernatural war brewing among his kind, there’s no time to work it out. To keep Wallace in her life, Rena will have to risk a whole lot more than her heart.
“Carrie has a very fresh voice, full of quirks and humor.” – Penny Reid, author of the best selling Knitting in the City series
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
Strength—and ultimately, the whole Mark of Nexus series—started as a “what if” scenario. What if a unique, supernatural race lived among us? What if there was more than one? How would the world stay in balance? I had to find out.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
I listened to music while I plotted out a few points, and the 2005 Five for Five cover of “All I Know” came on. Oh my goodness. The lyrics—especially the first few lines about bruising each other—really struck me. As I considered them, the figurative meaning morphed into a more literal scenario. How tortured a man with uncontrollable strength must be… falling in love for the first time… unable to touch the woman he loves without hurting her…
That’s how the romance element fell into place.
Book Excerpt/Sample
Chapter 1
I plastered myself flat against the wall, straining to distinguish footsteps from heart palpitations. He was close now; he had to be. My shoes gave a little squeak as rubber met linoleum, and I inched toward the corner. Come on…
For the millionth time since I’d gotten to the seventh floor, I had to wonder if coming up here was worth it. I mean, I hadn’t even been back on campus for twenty-four hours, and here I was—caught in a game of hide-and-seek with the madman. What did that say about my sanity?
I threw a quick glance over my shoulder.
Okay, so maybe this wasn’t the best time to consider it. Whether I liked it or not, I was halfway to his suite and I needed to stay under the radar.
“All right, Madman,” I muttered, peering around the edge. “Ready or not…”
It took two quick scans of the hallway for me to finally drop my shoulders and let out the breath I’d been holding. Thank God. Brave face or not, I would’ve shit my Vicki-Secrets had he actually been standing there. The guy gave me the creeps, and we’d never even met.
It wasn’t like I needed to see him to know his type. He was probably some scrawny little recluse in pedo-glasses, lurking around the dorm in one of those throwback tees from the ‘80s. Or at least, that’s how I pictured him.
See, word got around last semester that muffled screams and thuds were coming from this guy Wallace’s room every night—and not the kinky kind, either. He’d been isolated since his roommate went off the radar in September, and from what I’d heard, never had visitors. For all any of us knew, he’d built a torture chamber in there and smuggled his victims in at night. What were we supposed to think with all that noise?
Complaints were issued, but only resulted in a dorm-wide e-mail reminding everyone to be considerate of their neighbors during evening hours. God only knew how much of our tuition went into that brilliant solution. It had no effect whatsoever.
Fear threaded through the spreading rumors and wove the tapestry of our own, personal urban legend. Right here in freaking Wilcox, Ohio. By the time winter break rolled around, the story had been stretched and pulled beyond all recognition. Believe me. I knew all too well how it started.
The reason I’d heard so much, and the reason I was braving the seventh floor at all, was Wallace’s next-door neighbor, Aiden—one of my very best friends. He’d been the one to tell my roommate, Gabby, and me about the commotion, long before it became public knowledge. We might’ve shared that story with a few friends, and…well, things snowballed from there.
I shook my head and stole another glance down the hallway. No use dwelling on it now. After being apart for a month, I wasn’t going to let a little anxiety keep me from checking in on Aiden. Not during the day, at least. It was time to get serious.
There had to be some way to get down the hall, through the suite door, and into Aiden’s room without attracting any unwanted attention. All things considered, the maneuver should’ve been easy. Auto-pilot.
Every suite in Reid Hall has the same formulaic layout—a common room with two double-occupancy bedrooms and an adjoining bathroom. Nothing out of the ordinary there. I’d been in their common room more times than I could count, squirming and waiting for Aiden to answer the door. But it still managed to freak me out. Every. Time.
Waiting in their common room evokes a whole new level of awareness. Somehow, I always feel Wallace’s tunneled gaze as I stand there—his eye tracing my every move through the peephole. At any given moment, he could rip his door open, clamp a hand over my mouth, and drag me inside.
Rena Collins—another virgin sacrificed to the gods of campus chaos.
I wiped my hands on my pants and drew in a shaky breath. Okay, with that mindset, maybe I deserved to become a statistic. Idling here wasn’t going to make this any easier. If I didn’t rip off the Band-Aid, I’d lose my nerve.
Pulling my shoulders back, I lifted my chin and strode around the corner. It wasn’t like I’d taken those self-defense classes for nothing. If Wallace jumped out and tried anything, I’d give him a taste of my heat-seeking knee. The poor fool wouldn’t know what hit him.
I straightened my spine and took another step toward the door. Heh. Yeah. Maybe if someone actually stood up to—
Hinges creaked and something slammed into me full force. The impact burned my nose and forehead as the world tilted back in a sickening blur. It all happened so fast. I hadn’t even seen the door open.
And, just like that, everything stopped.
Something—no, someone—grabbed my shoulders in a death grip and steadied me on my feet. I lurched forward, struggling to right my balance, and found myself nose-to-chest with a stranger.
Damn, that hurt…
Concern tightened his features as he bent down and tried to meet my eyes. “Are you okay?”
My pulse protested, hammering in my ears. Was I okay? I opened my mouth to speak, but it was as if every word, every unintelligible utterance, had escaped me. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t move. My breaths were way too shallow.
Was I having a panic attack?
His eyes narrowed, dark lashes obscuring an electrical storm of emotion. I’d never seen anything more caged—flickering and surging beneath the surface. Brooding cerulean one moment, hypnotic blue the next.
It was all I could do to suppress a shiver as the warmth of his breath danced over my skin, his scent clouding the air between us. God, it smelled so familiar, like the air before a downpour. I took a deep, shuddering breath and forced myself to look up.
Raven hues played across hair that’d been spiked without any obvious effort. Overlooking the lack of product, his haphazard style could’ve probably been described as a faux-hawk. If he cared enough to label it.
I shook my head, letting my gaze slip past the hardened planes of his expression. A silvery line stood out from the rough, morning stubble that peppered his jaw. I swallowed. A small part of me was intrigued beyond measure, but it was so foreign I couldn’t place it. Instead, I let a much more familiar emotion run rampant through my system, the one that’d been building for the past thirty seconds—panic.
“I-I…” I stammered, unable to form a coherent thought to save my life.
Something changed in his eyes, and for the briefest of seconds, I thought I caught a glimpse of hurt. Just like that, the spell had been broken. He tore himself away from me as if I’d burned him, straightening to his full height.
I hadn’t even realized I’d been leaning in until he pulled away, and I barely caught myself. Stupid. As I looked up to gauge his expression, I felt another jolt of alarm. The man towered over me in a way I wasn’t accustomed to. I mean, sure, at only five foot two, most people have a head on me, but I didn’t even come to his shoulder. He was—
Wait.
What was I doing? I’d been standing there, gawking, and had yet to utter anything resembling English. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how depraved I looked.
“Sorry,” he muttered in a low voice, catching me off guard.
“I-I, uh…no, it was my fault.” I took a step back, so I didn’t have to crane my neck. “My bad.” My bad? Who says that?
“No, I didn’t—” He seemed uncomfortable, looking past me. “Sorry.” Without another word of explanation, he edged around me, taking long strides down the hallway.
I blinked—not once, but twice—at his retreating form. Who was that guy?
And what the hell just happened?
I took my time, retracing my steps to the elevator. Aiden would just have to wait. I couldn’t face him like this, not after the embarrassing stutter-fest I’d had with his visitor. Since when did he have hot friends, anyway? He could’ve freakin’ warned me.
Mid-morning light poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, tingling against my burning cheeks. In the few minutes I’d been gone, the sunlight had transformed last night’s dusting of snow into sparkling white glitter. The campus looked picturesque—a nice little postcard impression for the parents moving their kids back in.
It was what they were paying for, after all. Buildings, a mix of old and new, conforming to the same, brick standard. White columns and wide, cement staircases; modern lobbies and pretentious adornments. As the brochures say, a blend of tradition and innovation.
Without those things, or maybe because of those things, Wilcox is just another dot on the map—one of a dozen sleepy college towns in Ohio’s northeastern snowbelt. Houses are modest, crime is negligible, and football is a widely practiced religion. Not the most exciting place to live.
Unless, of course, you share a dorm with a madman.
I shook my head and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glass. Jade eyes cringed and peered back, rimmed with exhaustion. I looked like crap.
I tried to run a hand through my hair and got caught in a tangle. The edgy layers had already dried into a blond haystack. Aiden’s friend probably thought I looked like some mangy, wet dog who’d wandered in off the street; or, at the very least, someone too lazy to dry her hair.
Great.
I heaved a sigh and forced myself to go call for an elevator. There was no use pressing my luck if I didn’t have to. The doors parted with a mechanical hiss, and I slipped inside.
Later, Madman.
With the press of a button, the car began its slow, grinding descent to the fourth floor. Gabby had been sprawled out, dead to the world, when I left, and I hoped to find her in the same, semi-conscious state. I wasn’t ready for her interrogation. Not yet.
The numbers lit in measured succession, and finally, the doors chimed open. I stepped out into the hallway, took a deep breath, and began to creep down the hall like a ninja. No interaction for me, thanks. Things to do, people to avoid.
Before anyone could notice me, I was already past the suite door. Why couldn’t I have been this stealthy upstairs? I fit my key into the lock and gave it a gentle twist, easing the door open. The TV was on, blaring a teaser of the news to follow at noon. Another drunk had been found beaten in Columbus. Surprise, surprise. Thank God I didn’t live in the capital—
“Girl, please tell me you did not leave the dorm with that hair.” Gabby looked up from her magazine, lifting one perfectly arched brow.
Crap.
“I just went to see if Aiden was back yet. What’re you doing up?”
She shrugged, fishing her hand around inside a box of Lucky Charms. “Eating.”
“Thanks. I would’ve missed that.” I crossed the room, rolling my aching shoulders.
She went back to mindlessly flipping through the magazine as she ate, collecting marshmallows in the crease. God only knew how she’d missed her mouth. “So, how was geek boy?”
“I didn’t get to see him.”
She paused and tilted her chin, probably half-listening. “Why?”
Childish as it was, there were times I hated the girl as much as I loved her. She was the only person I knew who could wear wrinkled pajamas and still look like an extra from a Gap commercial. Thin, without looking anorexic. Dark hair falling in waves around her shoulders. If the chick from “La Vida Loca” has skin the color of mocha, Gabby has skin the color of a caramel freakin’ macchiato. Her perma-tan makes me look like I’ve never seen the light of day.
I blew out a sigh and stretched my arms over my head. “I met this guy. Well, I didn’t meet him exactly. I just sort of—”
“In sweats?” I had her full attention now.
My lips pinched together. “Yeah?”
She slumped with an exhale. “Rena, we just came back after a month off. Everyone’s going to be between Christmas loneliness and Valentine’s Day desperation. Do you really want to be seen running around in sweatpants?”
“Okay, first off,” I began, ticking points off on my fingers. “I don’t like the way you said sweatpants. Second, they’re not sweatpants. They’re yoga pants.” I kicked my favorite pair of sneakers under the bed. “Third, there’d be nothing wrong with them if they were sweatpants.”
There was an awkward pause, as if she were trying to digest my words. “And you think these”—she wrinkled her nose in disgust—“yoga pants attract men?”
I rolled my eyes, collapsing back onto my bed. “Believe it or not, I’m not trying to attract men.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I wanted them back. Swearing off men wasn’t the most effective argument against your bisexual roommate.
A wide grin pulled at her features. “That explains the sweatpants.”
“Shut up!” I covered my face with a pillow. “You know what I meant.”
She burst out laughing, and I groaned.
“C’mon, girl. You’ll like playing for both teams.”
I flung the pillow across the room. “Gabriela Felicia Hernandez!”
She cackled, ducking her head down. “Calm down. You sound like my mother.”
Hardly. In the two and a half years we’ve lived together, I’ve only been around her mother twice. She’s a sweet woman, but her accent is thick and she talks eighty miles an hour. I couldn’t imitate her on my best day.
A sudden song clip broke the silence, and Gabby leaned over to grab her phone off her desk. “Hold that thought. Aiden’s calling.”
I felt my lips twitch as she brought the phone to her ear. It was funny how close the three of us had become over the years—especially those two.
When we first met Aiden, freshman year, he was this hopeless nerd with a shock of copper hair and thick, black glasses. Back then, people in my English comp. class would make jokes about him—the cruel, obvious-to-everyone-but-him kind—and I kind of snapped. So the guy had a laugh like a chain-smoking horse—it wasn’t his fault. The details are hazy, and I don’t remember who set me off, but I ended up bitching out the whole class.
That was the week our professor suggested I try independent studies.
It was worth it, though. Aiden gathered his nerve and brought me his lecture notes as a thank you. I invited him in, introduced him to Gabby, and we’ve all been friends ever since.
“Mhm. Mhm. Okay, we’ll see you then.” She hung up before I could process the time lapse. “He’s unpacked.”
I sat up. “Did he sound excited?”
“Girl, please. He’s probably spent all morning sharpening his number two pencils for Monday.”
I couldn’t help but laugh as I pictured it. Aiden loves school. I mean loves it. The start of a semester, for him, is like the end of a semester for everyone else.
“I told him we’d meet near the parking deck in ten, so we can go to lunch.” She tossed the magazine aside and leaned forward. “Now tell me about this guy.”
Ugh. I should’ve known she wouldn’t let that little detail slip. Before I could rethink my exit strategy, I lunged for the door.
“Later. I have to pee!” Pee, of course, meant hide in the bathroom until it was time to go.
“Don’t think I’m gonna forget about it, Ree,” she bellowed as I shut the door. “You owe me details at lunch!”
Yep, the semester was off to a great start already.
Author Bio:
Carrie Butler is an award-winning author, the owner of Forward Authority Design Services, and a co-founder of NA Alley—not to mention a recovering marketer with a penchant for superhero socks and Firefly. Time away from her desk is spent playing with her rescue pup, yelling at the TV during hockey season, and indulging in target-based recreation. Otherwise, you’re likely to find her glued to her chair, discovering new ways to share her daydreams…
The Mark of Nexus series has appeared on Amazon bestselling, top-rated, and hot new release lists in various genres. It has also been mentioned in publications like USA Today and Writing New Adult Fiction—a recent how-to from Writer’s Digest.
Staring into glowing cat-eyes, while her attackers lay like broken dolls in the snow around her, shouldn’t have been a turn-on, Alyssa Aimes knew. But there was a vast, unbelievable world of difference between what ‘should be’ and what ‘is’, she was discovering. Alyssa shouldn’t consider the man who killed to save her from rapists a hero, but she does. She shouldn’t feel as if she belongs to that hero, mind body and soul, but there’s no way she can deny it. And the hardest part to get her head around, besides his extraordinary eyes: the knowledge that she’ll never see him again.
But four years later, Colton Blake does come back into her life, just as dramatically as he left it. And this time she’s determined to keep him there, even if she has to risk her recording contract and her life to do it.
For Colt, much has changed in four years. No longer a homeless drifter with a dangerous secret, he has found his place among the Scorpio Sons, an elite band of genetically engineered cloned warriors charged with bringing to justice a secret cabal that has been exploiting the world for millennia. But one thing that hasn’t changed during that time: his obsession with Alyssa, the stranger he met just once and can’t seem to forget. But now his mission has brought Alyssa back into his life. And with her comes a secret she doesn’t even realise she harbours; a secret that could bring not only Colt to his knees, but the whole band of the Scorpio Sons along with him.
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I’ve had a fascination with clones for a long time. The idea that one person could be identical to another raises so many questions. Having been an astrologer for many years and done natal chart readings for identical twins, I know their shared astrological building blocks could be used by each twin in different ways to make them individuals. Identical twins are basically clones. So if you factor in the slight irregularities that occur naturally in a DNA string and then add in different environments in which they grow up, you get a fascinating series of questions around just how alike these clones would be. If you then throw in some panther DNA to the genetically engineered mix all sorts of interesting possibilities open up. Would mates bred for these cloned warrior be attracted to them all, or would one stand out from the rest? Would a bunch of tough warriors with beasts inside them play nice with each other when a prospective mate comes on the scene? And the biggest question of all, what happens to a baby raised in a test-tube instead of a womb without a nurturing mother surrounding him? Does he lose any humanity he might have had and be unable to relate on an emotional level? So with questions like that, and more, my imagination started coming up with answers, and the Scorpio Sons were born (or removed from their gestation tubes to be precise.)
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
I started with an astrology chart for a person born on November 1 1988, the day the 100 babies were removed from their gestation tubes. I had overall shared traits for these warriors, but I then I specifically targeted certain aspects of the chart for each of the Sons who will feature in each of the six books in the series. Then I used those traits to mold a man and the kind of woman who would most attract him. Colton of Book i is very much the Scorpio Sun of the chart and his opposite would have Taurus traits. Having a beautiful voice is a common trait for those with strong Taurus, so Alyssa became singer with a voice that attracted Colt from the first moment he hears it.
Book Excerpt/Sample
“Good session, Miss Aimes?” asked her driver politely as he started up the car.
“Very productive, thank you. What was the weather like out here in the real world?” Being in a studio most of the day under artificial lights, air conditioning and surrounded by soundproofed walls made her feel disconnected from the world. It had become her habit to ask about the weather and news highlights when she left that cocoon, as a way to ground herself in what was real for others.
He gave a little laugh. “It’s California, Miss Aimes. The sun always shines here.”
Compared to Portland, that was certainly the truth. But she still missed home. Los Angeles just didn’t feel quite real to her, even after four years.
One of her bodyguards sat up front with the driver and the other sat at her side. She’d attempted polite conversation with them during their first few days on the job, but their stony expressions and lack of focus on anything but potential danger, made for poor conversations. So now she ignored them as the limo glided effortlessly out into the early afternoon traffic.
And she continued to ignore them, until the limo suddenly swerved sharply to the right and the brakes started screaming. Then, she glanced anxiously from one stony face to the other, trying to determine what was happening.
As they came to a jolting standstill, the bodyguard next to her drew his gun and opened the door.
“What’s going on?” she asked in a scared little voice she hadn’t heard since the night of her attack.
“Stay in the car, Miss. The limo was cut off intentionally.”
Cut off? Why? Maybe there was an accident ahead? Maybe there was a good reason they’d been cut off?
But as she heard gunshots erupt and the windshield shatter, she knew that there was no good reason for them being cut off. They were under attack. She was under attack. But why? It was way too organised for a crazed fan, even if she had any of those.
“Get down!” ordered the driver, who’d followed his own suggestion by flattening himself across the front seat at the first burst of gunfire.
Before she had a chance to do as she was told, the back door flew open and a face she never expected to see again peered in at her. He was crouching low, shoulders hunched protectively, as he offered her his hand. But for all his huddled posture, to her he looked like the most heroic man she’d ever seen.
If he’d said, “Come with me if you want to live,” she couldn’t have been more entranced.
“Come on. Your guards are down. It’s not safe here,” he growled urgently at her instead, looking and sounding so much better than Reece from ‘Terminator 1′.
This time there was no hesitation in accepting his hand. This time she was overjoyed to take it. Overjoyed to see him again.
He pressed her into a crouch as she eased out of the open door. The gunfire had stopped, but that didn’t mean the danger was over. The bad guys were probably waiting to see if they’d taken everyone out before they moved in.
With his body protectively wrapped around hers, they scuttled for the shelter of a nearby alley. Once there, her hero stood and pulled her up next to him, flattening her against the wall while he pressed his body over hers. Terrified, confused and shocked, she was still able to experience the relief of having him there and the excitement of feeling his hard form pressed against hers.
He was so much taller than she remembered. The top of her head barely reached his chin. Alyssa’s face was plastered to his sweat-dampened, white tee-shirt, and she could smell the leather of his jacket blending with the unique scent of clean male sweat and that indefinable something that sent her arousal through the roof.
In the distance she could hear sirens. The cavalry was coming. That meant they were safe now, didn’t it? But her hero didn’t relax at the sound. If anything, he seemed to tense up even more.
“Are they gone now?” she asked into his shirt, feeling him shudder as she did so.
“Probably. But I’m not going to wait around to find out. I’ll get you to your hotel. If the cops want to follow-up, they can do it with you somewhere secure.” His voice was such a low baritone that even when he spoke normally he sounded as if he was growling deep in his chest.
“Okay. I’m staying at the Grand Regent. Do you know it?”
“Yeah. Come on, it’s only a few blocks away on foot. ”
Author Bio:
Even though she was a writer and storyteller from the time she could string words together, ex-pat Aussie, Nhys Glover, didn’t consider having her writing published until the Indie Book Revolution opened up the world to books that don’t quite fit into a specific sub-genre. Now, with over 100,000 of her ebooks downloaded globally and a SFR Galaxy Award for her time travel/historical romance ‘The Titan Drowns’, Nhys is finding that writing outside the box is appreciated by many romance readers looking for something a little bit different.
Having had a career that was a varied and unusual as her books, Nhys has no shortage of inspiration for her romances, which cover Ancient Roman historical romances to time travel and the paranormal. And she writes them all from her heritage listed coach house on the North Yorkshire Dales of England, where she can stare out the window at the changing seasons (seasons don’t change much in Australia) and follow her imagination to worlds as yet unexplored.
Sycamore Heights, where everyone keeps a deadly secret.
On the surface Katrina Harvey is like any other 17-year-old about to start their senior year but not everything is quite as it seems. After being violently attacked she loses her memory and now has no idea who is friend, foe, or – most importantly – that she happens to be a 235-year-old vampire.
Now Katrina is being stalked by someone, or something, who doesn’t want her to remember her past and will do anything to keep it that way.
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I love the Point Horror, NightWorld & Fear Street novels from the nineties. I loved the mystery and innocence and those books just made me want to write my own novels. I also wanted to write a book that I wanted to read and have my take on the paranormal world.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
I would like to say that they are based on people I know but other than a few character traits each of the characters have from me. All of them are just from my imagination. My wolves are the easiest because I always wanted to read a book were the werewolves shifted into full wolves but still kept some of their human traits like talking, having a sense of humour or even keeping pets.
Book Excerpt/Sample
Prologue
Late October, 1997
Katrina placed the textbook she was studying back on the library shelf and glanced down at her wristwatch. The silver dial read 3:27 p.m. Three minutes until the library closed.
Wow, Katrina thought. I am really cutting it fine today.
Stuffing the notes she had just written into her book bag, she hurried out of the school library, down the two flights of stairs, and out of the main school building.
Outside, storm clouds had started to fill the sky and cast an unfriendly grayness to everything.
If I cut over the football field I should be able to get home before it starts to rain, Katrina mused.
Hurrying past the deserted bleachers Katrina started to make her way across the Clayton Falls High School football field. At about quarter way across she heard her cell phone ringing.
“Anton!” Katrina answered without looking at her caller display.
“Where are you? You should have been home over an hour ago,” a male voice crackled down the phone line.
“Anton, stop worrying about me,” Katrina replied gently.
“Katrina, you know I don’t like it when you walk home from school alone.” Anton paused. “I can’t see why you couldn’t have ridden with me.”
Katrina laughed softly. “You know I had an English assignment to finish in the library after last period. Besides, I am more than capable of getting home by myself.”
Anton sighed. “I still don’t like it.”
“I’ll be home soon, so stop acting like a macho jock! There are no juniors here to impress.”
“Katrina!”
“I’m walking through the football field now.”
“Katrina, turn back. I’ll pick you up in front of the school.”
“Anton, I’m fine, and it’s not that I’m like other girls.”
“I know that you can—” Anton started.
But his words were cut off: the phone was dead.
Damn! Katrina cursed. I knew I should have charged it last night.
Katrina sighed and took out her portable CD player from her book bag, flicked through the CD’s playlist until she came to her favorite track, put in her earphones and turned up the volume. By now the evening air had dropped in temperature, and she pulled her jacket tighter around her body.
With her music distracting her, Katrina did not hear that someone had followed her from Clayton Falls High School library and across the school’s football field. Nor did she hear her stalker raise a baseball bat and take a swing at her skull.
The last thought Katrina had was of her sister, Suzanne, before her memory faded behind a veil of darkness.
The first drops of rain started to fall as Katrina’s attacker picked up the cell phone and book bag that Katrina had dropped and left her for dead, before starting to walk away with a bloodied baseball bat in hand.
Author Bio:
Catherine Gardiner was born and raised next to rolling green meadows in Yorkshire, England where she resides with her beloved border collie. When she is not writing she is either researching for her upcoming novels, taking photographs, cooking or going for long leisurely walks along a nearby river. She first conceived the idea for her novels when she was doing a creative writing course in college and had to walk home alone through a wood where she often imagined what might be in the shadows. She also thinks her love of writing and her passion for all things creative is due to her Irish roots.
When six friends return to the U.S. from a relaxing and fun-filled vacation abroad, they eagerly board the airport shuttle that’s arrived to take them back to their hotel.
But it’s the wrong shuttle.
Tired and grumpy, the group quickly realizes something isn’t right with their ride, or the man driving them. After being locked in as passengers for hours, they are separated and turned into prisoners, quickly finding themselves fighting for their lives, and wondering if they’ll ever see their homes, or each other again.
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
My wife and I returned from a trip abroad, and our plane arrived late at night and it was raining. When the hotel shuttle arrived to take us back to the hotel where we’d left our car, I thought, “We have no idea if this guy is really who he seems to be. How do we know he’s taking us to the hotel. He could be taking us anywhere.” The idea grew from there. Fortunately, we arrived safely where we were supposed to. The characters in the book were not so lucky.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
I wanted a diverse group of friends that would be able to work off of each other and each bring a different personality and tolerance for the situation to the table. I think I did that.
Book Excerpt/Sample
In this chapter, the characters discover that the shuttle driver isn’t exactly who he’s supposed to be. They start to panic.
Chapter Three
“Excuse me, sir!” Jeremy yelled through the metal partition, sitting up fast and nearly bumping his head on the van’s ceiling. “Sir! We’re staying at the Marriott Suites!”
Nothing.
The driver stared straight ahead through the rain-splattered windshield, two hands now gripping the wheel.
“Sir, you passed our exit!”
Not even a flick of the eyes into the rearview. Early-nineties Green Day came on the radio and the driver reached one hand to the dial to increase the volume.
He’s ignoring me. I know he can hear me. The fucker is ignoring me.
The shouting had caused the girls to wake up, and they both stirred with irritated grunts and groans of teenagers who’d just been awakened to go to work on a Saturday morning.
Wendy from the back: “S’wrong with Jeremy?” She uncurled herself from her position and stretched her back.
Mark leaned forward, bleary-eyed and rubbing at the back of his neck. “Jeremy, why so loud man? We’re almost there, right?”
“No! There’s something wrong. This guy just went by our exit and didn’t even slow down.”
“Does he know where we’re going?” It was Josh now, back from his nap against the window. Megan’s eyes were still closed, but she managed to mumble out, “He said it,” before yawning and trying to find a more comfortable spot on Josh’s shoulder.
“What’s that, babe?” Josh said, nudging her with his arm.
Even in their semi-panicked state, the group didn’t fail to notice the babe thrown onto the end of that sentence. Guess that’s proof they’re shacking up, Jeremy thought. Wonderful. Brandon and I are now fifth and sixth wheel to two couples. His mind went briefly to Amy, wondered what she was doing, but Brandon’s voice cut his thought short.
“She said, ‘He said it.’ She’s talking about the driver. When he got out of the van at the airport he asked if we were going to the Marriott Suites.”
The van got quiet. Green Day was finishing up their last go of the chorus and an eighteen-wheeler passed by on the left, a spray of water assaulting the bottom of the vehicle.
“So… what’s that mean?” Wendy asked.
“It means he did it on purpose,” Jeremy said. “He’s not taking us to the hotel.”
“Oh good God, Jeremy,” Mark said, leaning forward over the bench, his head next to Josh’s. “Hey buddy! Is there a reason you didn’t take the exit for the Marriott Suites? Construction or… an accident or something? Hey!”
The driver offered nothing in return, only looked over his shoulder to his blind spot as he flipped on the turn signal to change lanes. Then his eyes were back to the road.
The metal grated partition might as well have been soundproof for all the reaction they were getting from the driver.
Josh was apparently tired of playing games, and Jeremy was glad to see somebody finally waking up to the potential of their situation as Josh pounded on the partition hard two times with a balled-up fist. “Asshole! Are you deaf? Where are we going?”
The metal barrier rattled loudly, but gave very little. It was solid and thick and sturdy. The driver didn’t flinch.
Jeremy stared at the man, thought maybe if he looked long enough and hard enough at the guy then, as a human, he would eventually feel obligated to return his gaze.
It didn’t work. The deejay came on the radio and the driver reached one hand out to the knob and changed the station, country this time.
Oh God, even the music is getting worse. Jeremy pounded this time, banging on the partition with both hands and hollering empty-threats.
The volume got turned up louder.
Both hands aching, Jeremy slumped down in his seat and turned to look at the rest of his group. They all stared back at him, eyes wide and full of—finally—fear.
Cell phones!
Jeremy sat back up, scrambling to search his heavy jacket’s pockets. He found his cell and pulled it out. “I’m calling the police, asshole! This is your last chance!”
They changed lanes, smoothly and safely.
“Fine!” Jeremy dialed 911 and pressed send. Put the phone to his ear. He could hear the blood pumping furiously in his head.
Nothing happened.
He pulled the phone away and looked at the screen. The words CALL FAILED stood out brightly in the dim interior of the van. He looked at his signal strength. “Damn it, no signal! Quick, everybody, pull out your phones, try to call nine-one-one!”
All at once the other five of them dug into their jacket pockets and pulled out their phones, the inside of the van suddenly looking like a modern-day rock concert as they all held up their illuminated screens and started moving them side to side.
“Nothing,” Brandon said.
“Fuck! Me neither!” Mark punched the rear of the bench in front of him.
Wendy whimpered a little as she said, “Nope.” And then added, “Battery’s almost dead, too.”
Jeremy looked at Josh and Megan. They just shook their heads and then looked back to their useless cell phones.
“How’s that even possible?” Mark asked. “We’re in a fuckin’ metropolis area. We’re right outside the nation’s fuckin’ capital!”
Jeremy, good ole worrying Jeremy, felt he knew the answer.
“The van is blocking cell signals,” he said, looking to the roof.
“Fuck you talking about?” Mark asked.
Brandon turned to look at Mark, irritation in his eyes. “He’s saying there’s a device in or on the van that’s blocking cellular signals from penetrating. In layman’s terms, it means our cell phones aren’t good for a damn thing except playing Angry Birds.” Then he added, “And taking all the pictures we can of the asshole up there driving. That way, when we get out of this, we can show the police what his face looks like from every angle.”
There was seriousness in Brandon’s voice that unnerved Jeremy a little. Mark, too, apparently, because he didn’t bite back with his typical sarcastic or mean-spirited remark.
What Jeremy didn’t want to say out loud was this: They were in an unmarked black van, caged in the back while the driver ignored them, doing seventy-miles-per-hour on wet roads toward a destination that was not their own, all while their cell phones were turned into two-hundred-dollar flashlights. There was something very bad going on, and there was no guarantee that they would make it out of this alive.
Jeremy, good ole worrying Jeremy, already had them pegged for dead.
Unless they did something fast.
Unless they could…
Jeremy started banging on the windows of the van, kicking at the door and bouncing up and down in his seat. The springs inside the bench gave out cries of abuse. He started to yell, “Help! Hey! Anybody!”
A single car passed them on the right and then was gone. Jeremy used one hand to motion to the rest of the group to follow his lead, to start trying to make a scene. “Come on guys! Start acting crazy! Somebody will notice!”
There was a hesitation, and he sensed it from all of them. Humans, even in the most dire of circumstances, sometimes still have an aversion to wanting to look like an idiot.
Wendy was the first one to cave. She sat up on her knees and turned around, leaning across the back of the bench and reaching over the pile of luggage in the back to pound on the windows of the rear doors. “Hey!”—thud thud thud thud thud—“Hey, we need help!” She continued to hit the glass, her lower body hopping up and down with each strike.
Mark started to do the same on his side window, first slapping it, open-palmed, and then balling up his powerful fist and hammering away, filling the air with a string of obscenities to go with his pleas for help.
Josh stood up, his top quarter hunched over and pressed against the roof of the van, and started to stomp his feet and throw his body into the side window. The van rocked slightly to the left each time he did it. This did get a reaction from the driver. He did a quick jerk of the steering wheel to the left—just a brief, sudden movement—and Josh toppled over into Megan’s lap, his right elbow banging against the partition.
This caused a rise in Megan who, once Josh was back in his seat, slid down in her seat and raised both legs, kicking at the metal divider with her tiny sneaker-clad feet. The rattling and vibrating of the grating grew louder and more powerful with each kick, but it still showed no signs of being broken down. The bolts and brackets held strong.
Brandon only sat there, his eyes focused on the driver, something in him not quite ready to capitulate and join the antics of his friends. His mind raced for a solution. He knew he was the smart one of the group. Not that they were stupid—well, Wendy wasn’t the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree. But she was hot, so it worked out—but Brandon knew his brain worked a little differently. He lived a different life than them. Dealt with things they didn’t know about. He was street smart. Usually, he thought, and then pushed away thinking about what he was going to have to deal with once he got back home—If he got back home. His eyes looked around the van, back to the driver, then back to his friends. Gotta be something, he thought.
Eventually, the group settled down. Their hands and feet and voices were sore, and the few cars on the road that had passed them hadn’t even given a glance in the van’s direction.
“They’re not even looking at us!” Mark said.
Brandon thought back to the image of the van as it had pulled up to the shuttle stop at the airport. Remembered how black it was. “Windows are tinted,” he said. “They can’t see a damn thing. And let’s face it, they certainly can’t hear us.” He knew the screaming was only for the group’s satisfaction; scratching some internal itch of wanting to be rescued, to do everything they could to be noticed.
The driver coughed and then cleared his throat, and the group poised itself with anticipation.
He said nothing.
They all sat in silence. Minutes ticked by, each one seemingly longer than the last. Wendy had taken up refuge inside Mark’s arms, her face buried in his broad chest and one arm wrapped around his torso. Josh had his arm around Megan, and she clasped his hand with hers, her fingers mindlessly playing with his. All of their eyes seemed blank. They stared ahead at nothing, each of their minds wondering about their fate.
Brandon sat on the back bench and looked over at Wendy acting afraid and trying to hide her tears in Mark’s jacket. He rolled his eyes. Megan and Josh were wrapped in a little love cocoon too, and he couldn’t blame them. With just the two of them left to try and think of what to do next, Brandon leaned forward and tapped Jeremy on the shoulder.
Jeremy turned and saw Brandon, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket, and he could smell the mint from his chewing gum his face was so close.
“What do you think, man?” Brandon asked him.
“What do you mean, exactly? What do I think about us being held against our will and driven down the interstate by a silent psycho?”
Brandon stayed calm. Knew that was the best bet for any situation. But he had to ask the question, had to know what Jeremy—the one who always worried, but also always managed to stay pretty levelheaded—would think about something. “What I mean is, do you think he’s going to try to kill us? I’ve been thinking, and, like, there’s six of us, man. If he were really just some psycho killer who’s figured out a clever way into getting victims to just jump into a vehicle with him, wouldn’t he target smaller groups? Or individuals? Why a group so large? Isn’t that more risk? Bigger chance of failure, or chances of somebody escaping? I mean, even if he’s got a gun and… Dude, you okay?”
Brandon’s words had triggered thoughts in Jeremy’s head that he’d been trying to fight off. Images of bullet holes through the foreheads of his friends, six graves dug into the wet earth in the middle of the woods off some back road in a forgotten county. Bloodied limbs being fed through a wood chipper, the evidence getting sprayed out the other end in a pulpy red mess. He’s going to kill us, he’s going to kill us, hesgoingtokillus!
All at once it felt like his chest was collapsing and his lungs filled with lead. He tried to suck in air and only managed quick, rapid intakes of breath. Staccato inhales and expulsions. His heart hammered and stammered, a skipped beat here or there. He was getting dizzy and oh God why was it so hot in the van? He needed to get his jacket off. He clawed at the zipper and fumbled with the buttons.
Hesgoingtokillushesgoingtokillushesgoingtokillus
He needed air.
He needed to escape.
“Jeremy, calm down, man!” Josh was sitting up and reaching out a hand to grip his friend’s shoulder.
“Is he having one of those things he gets?” Megan asked. “Those… panic attack things?”
“Fuck, looks like it,” Mark said from the rear. “I saw him have one once before. Wasn’t like this, though. Wasn’t this bad.”
Wendy could only stare, her heart thudding hard in her chest as she watched her friend suffer.
Brandon shocked them all when his hand shot out and he slapped Jeremy across the face. The smack echoed off the van’s interior, and for a second, they all thought it had worked. Jeremy’s breathing stalled in his chest, and his squirming stopped.
But the reprieve was brief. Because the next second, Jeremy’s chest did one huge heave upward, a great gasp escaping his lips, and then he was at it again. The little mini-breaths causing his chest to jump up and down up and down up and down.
Then his hand grabbed the door handle and started to pull.
“I’ve got to get out! I’ve got to get out! I’ve got to get out!” Jeremy tugged on the handle repeatedly, in constant rhythm with his shouting, the silver plastic flexing in his hand with each tug. But the latch was not responding. The door was locked. His other hand started scraping along the door, down the side and along the top where it met the window, fingers searching desperately for the lock.
There was nothing.
“Let me out, motherfucker!” Jeremy jerked the handle more, harder and with deeper frustration each time he pulled.
The group began to shout together, trying to get Jeremy to calm down before he ended up hurting himself. His breathing was getting more erratic, and Brandon saw his friend get a glazed look in his eyes at one point and nearly topple head first into the window. But somehow, Jeremy managed to keep himself from hyperventilating, and he kept tugging away at the door handle, hurling his curses and pleas at the driver. Megan tried to pull him close to her, get him to sit down in his seat, but he shrugged her off hard and she retreated back into Josh’s embrace, a single tear falling down her cheek.
Right when Brandon thought Jeremy was going to simply snap the door handle off, his friend stopped pulling on it, and instead let out a hoarse scream and began to punch the window with his fist.
“Let!” (punch) “Me!” (punch) “Out!” (punch)
He did this over and over, the screams getting louder, the force behind each blow increasing. The glass was unrelenting.
He’s going to break his fucking hand, Mark thought, about to switch places with Wendy in the back so he could try to restrain Jeremy.
Then, with a single blow, the skin on Jeremy’s knuckles split, and he started to leave smeared dots of crimson on the tinted glass.
Jeremy didn’t notice. Kept pounding.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” It was the driver who’d shouted, and the entire group fell still and silent, shocked at his first words of their trip. All but Jeremy, that is, who hadn’t even noticed. He was lost in his panic.
The van had been traveling in the far right lane of the four-lane highway, and he pulled the wheel hard to his left, crossing all three lanes of traffic in one continuous swoop. A single car blared its horn and then shot by on their right. The group was flung against the right wall of the van. The momentum carrying Jeremy face-first into the blood-spotted window.
“What the fuck, man!” Mark shouted from the rear. “You trying to kill us?”
Poor choice of words, Brandon thought, extracting himself from Wendy, but not before taking a deep inhale of her shampooed hair.
The driver never turned to look at them, but shouted over the sound of the rain and the radio. “Okay buddy, you want out so badly? Go ahead!” He reached down with his left hand and hit a button to unlock the door, the group all swinging their heads around at the sound of the lock disengaging to their right.
Then the driver leaned heavier on the gas and the speedometer shot up to eighty.
Author Bio:
Author of suspense and horror novels, as well as short stories and collections, Michael’s books have been downloaded over 80,000 times on Amazon.com. His suspense novel Regret* has been in and out of the Top 100 Suspense rankings on Amazon, recently reaching the #1 spot overall in the free books section during a promotion. Rough Draft, a horror novel and newest release, has been in the Top 100 horror rankings. His newest novel, Transit, is available now!
