Here’s a sneak peak to the novel I’m working on. I began it a few years back but stopped after the prologue, previously published to my former blog site. Blame it on lack of motivation, too many similar books already published. Whatever you will. My biggest fear in writing is writing something that reminds the reader too much of another author’s book. After some contemplation, I took it off the back burner a week ago. My biggest frustration has been character development and detail. Too many authors aren’t fully developing a story, in a rush to meet a deadline, and it’s leaving the reader disappointed. I promised myself, as a writer and with this piece, that I wouldn’t be one of those authors. Some mystery and open ending can be good, enticing, but I always thought it should be done in moderation. That being said, this small segment will greatly expand eventually as I work through my characters and storyline, hopefully turning into something I’ll be proud enough to seek publication one day…..

Prologue

Slowly, Beth turns the key in the lock, waiting to hear that familiar “click.” It doesn’t come. She lightly pushes the door ajar with her pointer finger and quickly steps back, confused. That’s odd, I could have sworn I locked the door after I left, she thinks, refusing to jump to any conclusions and not wanting to believe that the worse has come.

The groceries suddenly become very heavy in her arms as she kicks the door the rest of the way open and steps inside. She turns slightly and swiftly to shut it with her heel. Feeling along the wall with her elbow, she finally finds the light switch and flicks it on. She flips off her Sperrys as she leaves the entry and quickly carries the groceries into the kitchen, setting them on the island counter before she might drop them.

Before she begins to put the groceries away, she walks to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of water, uncapping it and taking a long swig as she strolls over to turn on her radio. As the first chords begin to play through the speakers, she freezes and the water drops from her hand.

No longer does the sweet and calming melody of Ray LaMontagne’s voice fill her house, but it is replaced with the explosive dark strings of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony; the song that he used to always begin his fundraiser concerts with; the one he blared throughout their old, secluded, country-style home when he came home from a rough day at work and wanted something; something from her. When he wanted her. And planned to take what he wanted. Because she was his—or at least that was what he would yell into her ear as she laid on her back motionless for him, waiting for him to be done and dreaming of the day it all would be over. She had hoped those days were finally here.

She backs up into the island counter and slides down onto the floor. Tears begin to stream down her face, and she wonders how he could have found her when she had been so careful. She had made sure to never contact any family or friends, except to send them a birthday card every year, signed only with a heart. To cut off her friends entirely was never an option she could live with, no matter how hard she tried; she allowed herself just this one contact to bring herself some comfort. Instinctively, she leans forward and reaches behind her into the cabinet and finds the pot that holds her gun. Still holding the small pistol in her left hand, she reaches up above her onto the counter for her cell phone buried in her purse.

Digging through her purse, she hears a floorboard creak: Stairs! she desperately thinks as she stops rummaging and catches her breadth, trying and failing to listen for more over the angry chords. Hoping it was only her imagination but wanting to hear it again; wanting to know which door she should run to; wishing she knew how to escape this hopeless feeling of a caged animal, one beaten and bruised, with no end to the torture and relentless trepidation.

She fights the urge to get up and turn the radio off, not wanting him to be suspicious of her fear and knowing he would take full advantage of it. With one ear cocked towards the stairs, trained to recognize another disturbance, she quietly continues to frantically hunt through her purse. Becoming anxious, she empties the contents onto the floor, hating the noise she is making but unaware to the possibility that the music covers her rummaging. As she sees her blackberry fall from the pouch’s folds, she tosses her purse aside and snaps the phone off the floor, unconsciously making the decision to run through the hallway past the library and out the back door.

She has only taken three eager strides down the hall when she hears him jump off the stairs and run from the front entry on the opposite side of the house. She rushes on, not wasting time to look back, knowing there must be only a couple yards that separate them. She reaches the patio door and yanks it open, thankful she forgot to replace its broken lock the previous day. Still running through, she simultaneously grabs the handle on her way out and pulls the door closed behind her, hearing him curse as she sprints away off the red and brick patio and towards the wooded walk leading to her neighbors. This is why you run everyday. Come on, you just have to get past the bushes and rose garden and then it’s a quick view of Diane and Shirley. It’s Sunday, they’ll be outside, just get in their view, she conditions herself, knowing that a panic would only slow her down and hearing him only yards behind her.

“I see you’ve been running, Mutt,” he sneers at her from behind. Hearing the old nickname, she cringes and gains speed with new motivation. Not now, he can’t get me like this. Not on a sunny Sunday morning, and with the bushes only a short sprint away.

Every Sunday morning, Diane and Shirley, sat outside drinking mimosas and eating gooey hot cinnamon rolls from the local bakery while looking through the adds of the newspaper, catching up on the weekly news, and reading whatever book they were on for that week’s Thursday night book club. They were two seventy-three year old women who had been best friends since birth, or at least that is what they liked to tell folks.

Even though they retired from teaching at the local university, Diane gives violin and piano lessons while Shirley is a ballet instructor. Four times a week they make it a point to do hot yoga in the next town over then come back to Bert’s Brews, the popular café in town, and gossip about everything they saw and everyone they encountered. Age may know them well but they don’t know it. They still insist on playing monsters and kids with their great grandchildren, running around the yard chasing them while making goofy sounds. They both lost their husbands in the Vietnam War and refuse to marry again but their house is always filled with love and family, related or proudly adopted.

Carefully traipsing through the rose garden, Beth glances up the hill, relieved to see them sitting out in their rockers enjoying the sunshine and being reliable as ever; but she refuses to relax her pace, not until she’s reached the edge of their very large patio.

“Well hello there, Beth,” Diane greets her, always the more vocal woman of the two. “Nice morning for a jog I see, although it looks like you could use some new work out clothes.”

“Oh Diane, leave the child be,” Shirley cackles and rolls her eyes. “Can’t you tell? She must be in a hurry.”

“Well yes, but that doesn’t mean I can’t chide her now. Ain’t that right doll?” Diane turns her attention back to Beth and fully takes in her disheveled look and bare feet. “My dear, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

“Are you alright child?” Shirley joins in, putting her book down on the table and taking Beth’s hand in both of hers.

Looking down at the two elderly women, Beth realizes her mistake in coming here for safety. Craine could easily hurt them. They are no match for him despite their years of working out and making sure to stay in shape. “Yes, I’m fine,” she responds, knowing they won’t believe her but trying anyway.

“Honey, I never did like a liar, especially a blatant one,” Diane quickly retorts as she lays her book in her lap and takes Beth’s other hand in her own, never setting down her mimosa. “Please tell us what has got you so worried and in such a mood.”

“We’ve come to think of you as a granddaughter.”

“Even if you have only been living next door for a year.”

The tears she had willed to go away as she ran the wooded path were resurfacing. They were right, they were like a pair of grandmothers to her, too. Desperately wanting to tell them, she hesitates and looks up towards the street and spots Craine. He is staring back at her, making sure she knows he is not going away; that she is not safe, she never was. She had only fooled herself into thinking that running away gave her a free and happy life for the past year, but who was she chiding. She still double checked the locks on every door at night, made sure all the windows were closed, and checked each room before going to bed at night. She could not even resist checking when taking a nap. She had so greatly wanted to sleep with the windows open during the summer but was somehow still unable to conquer that fear. She was never going to be safe, she realized; except maybe, if only, for just one more night.

He turns around and digs the motorcycle he had hidden out of the scarce bushes beside her house, how the hell did I miss that? Beth looks back down at the women, staring back and forth between the two. Taking a final breath in and slowly releasing it, she realizes she couldn’t trust anyone more in her life than these two. He may be a cop with an entire police force that have his back, but she was young, twenty-nine, and needed to live a life not afraid of the future or running from the past.

Releasing their hands, Beth turns around and reaches for the third rocker—the one they bought for her as a welcoming gift when she moved into the neighborhood, a friendly open invite to join them any Sunday as long as she didn’t talk and disturb their peace too much. Many mornings were spent reading the local paper, any cooking or home magazine she could get her hands on, and a wide range of novels in that rocking chair. It had become a welcomed part of her Sunday morning routine. Pulling the rocker closer to the ladies and sitting down in it, she recognizes her need for help—and how much of their peace she is about to disrupt.

With the harsh sound of the motorcycle’s thrum as Craine begins to drive away—for now, she knows he’ll be back soon—Beth leans forward in her chair, elbows placed on her knees as only her toes touch the ground, showing off the muscles in her calves. She suddenly thrusts out her right hand to Diane, the woman who’s closest, and with all the confidence she can muster, firmly states, “Hi, I’m Lesley Anne and I could really use a mimosa.” Smooth, real smooth.

~~~

It was like they never heard, still sitting motionless in their rockers. Diane weakly shakes Lesley’s, more out of polite habit than anything. A few seconds pass before the slightest movement proves they did. Diane removes her hand and leans back in her rocker. Lesley smoothly pulls her hands back, cradling them in her own lap, twiddling her thumbs as she looks down at her bare feet playing with the porch wood.

Numbly and without any sound, Shirley gets up from her rocker, showing every bit her age suddenly. Tasting blood from biting her lip, Lesley cannot believe what she has just done and kicks herself thinking, these women don’t deserve this. Why did I have to kill their innocent Sunday ritual? One salty tear trickles down her cheek, followed by another and another, only making the reality of it all worse. With the back of her hand she wipes them away, hating the honesty behind it, her vulnerability. All she wanted was her own Sunday routine without the threat of her past creeping around every corner and she had just abruptly taken away her neighbors’ tradition.

The sound of glass shattering in the kitchen from Shirley dropping the pitcher sends Diane into motion—she’s off her rocker and dialing her nephew faster than Lesley can respond and grab the phone from her. She’s lost the battle, why did I tell them? How did that just spill from my mouth like I needed the confession for survival? How can I possibly think they will be of much help? Every ounce of bravery begins to drain from Lesley’s body and her face becomes pale. The adrenaline is gone and all that is left is reality.

Mutt, he had called her. She heard it seethe through him as he exhaled the old nickname with hatred. He thought it fitting. She was a mixed breed, an orphan. No parents, no siblings and no friends—as far as he knew. He had put her in a cage. She belonged only to his world. Did as he told or there were consequences. Sometimes, even when she would listen, she still suffered the consequences, simply because he enjoyed it. He beat her like she was from the pound and she knew it was only a matter of time before her time was up. Love never existed in their relationship, everything was a lie—this was why she had ran. To him, she was a trophy only later to become a pet that he abused for his own entertainment. His was the only pleasure that mattered, no matter the harm she suffered. The future she had begun to believe in and so desperately wanted to exist only a few days before became lost in that morning’s events. She didn’t have one.

Face in her hands, she wonders what kept Craine from coming over right now, why did he stop? Or drive away? He had to see the women, assuming they’d be easy to take in their old age. She knew the answer. He wanted her to fear, to know that he was around any corner. He could be on the road driving right behind her or beneath her window as she tossed and turned in bed relentlessly, unable to fall asleep at night.

Something on her face registers with Diane, who is silent on the phone when her nephew answers but finally pulls from her reverie, responding, “Nick! Hello, sorry for the call. We thought we broke our blender but Beth—Lesley—no, Beth came over and got it to work just fine for our morning mimosas. How are you doing, though? Everything still going good?”

If only I could lie like that. Well, minus the minor slip-up, I would not have had to bring them into this. I simply could have said I got spooked, or Mace got out of the house and I was chasing after him—WAIT. The sudden realization that she had never noticed Mace in the house or yard turns Lesley ashen. Frantic with worry, she sends the rocker back as she jumps up to look around the two yards.

“No, no, Nick, we are all good…Lesley? I don’t remember a Lesley…well I am seventy-three, if you haven’t heard, I am allowed these blunders and babblings with my memory…” Lesley hears as she runs to check along the hedge on the property line and the bushes surrounding the house.

~~~

Chapter 1

Dingy. No other word could describe the hole in the wall bar that would soon become her sanction. Two layers of grime and decorated with gum, it was a wonder the place kept patrons, but if the health department deemed it fit enough for business she wasn’t about to complain. She didn’t have the luxury of time to find a different job. John had promised her she would have a job here and she wasn’t about to pass the opportunity up.

“—Beth Gable,” the woman behind the bar interrupted her thoughts. With only a few patrons scattered around the bar, the woman’s hairline was glistening with sweat. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a high ponytail with escaping strands shaping her tanned face and she was elbow deep washing dishes. Despite the crows feet Beth noticed around the eyes, the woman looked good for pushing fifty. If it weren’t for John, she never would have guessed the woman standing before her was older than forty. What was her secret? Beth wondered, desperately wanting to know the answer to every woman’s aging question.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Don’t worry about it hon, that look in your eye gave you away. You were off in another world. I will say that won’t fly here if you aren’t attentive to our customers, but you came highly recommended from John and Lord knows I owe the guy a favor or four.”

Her easy ramblings put Beth at ease, though the nerves still lingered at bay. Close enough to be noticed but far enough from preventing her to remember her manors. “Sorry, just trying to take in my new place of employment. John spoke highly of the place, raved about your Tuesday taco night.”

The woman cackled at that and Beth noticed the smoker betrayal in her voice, “Mary Sue but everyone calls me Mo.”

After a little more small talk and some minor jabs at John’s expense, Mo showed Beth around the small place. The walls were of wood, placed vertical and scratched to hell, as if a litter of cats clawed the wall. In some places, words were etched in permanence. Upon further inspection, Beth noticed it appeared as though the guests had signed their names. The walls around tables were covered; even some of the bar stools and tables themselves.

It wasn’t a big establishment. Only big enough for a center oval bar that took up most of the space and was surrounded by a dozen high top tables. The bar side closest to the door held the server station while the far end, nearest the restrooms and kitchen, housed the entry to the bar. The bathrooms were single stalled and located near the back. The front wall housed a small buffet and Beth quickly learned the menu was strictly appetizers. Most patrons relied on the buffet for anything substantial. Besides Taco Tuesday, there was Wing Wednesday, Chili Thursday, Fish Fry Friday, and Slider Saturdays. Sundays were anything goes, which usually meant anything leftover or a big slew of spaghetti.

“What about Mondays?”

“Mondays are for sleep, chores, and errands. We aren’t open,” Mo replied as if it was the craziest idea in the world to work on a Monday. Small town luxury Beth guessed. “You start next Tuesday. That should give you a few days to get situated.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I don’t need the extra days. I’d actually prefer to start as soon as possible.”

“What can I get you, Starky?” Mo stepped back behind the bar and threw down a napkin in front of a gray bearded bald guy who had just taken a seat at the bar, poured his two fingers of Maker’s Mark and then turned her attention once again to Beth. “Well okay then. 10a.m. tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

Giving a slight nod to show she understood, Beth turned to leave as a phone rang.

“Hold up,” shouted Mo as she still cradled a cell phone to her ear and pointedly glanced at the duffle bag Beth still gripped, having refused to set it down anywhere during the quick tour, before continuing, “Change of plans. Can you work tonight? Be back around four? That will give you about three hours to go home, change, cleanup, whatever.”

Beth couldn’t believe her luck. The fear of being the new girl and getting shafted on shifts left as Beth took a breath of relief. “Yes. Perfect.”

“Janice you’re off the hook…No, don’t thank me, thank Beth when you meet her.” Mo’s tone didn’t escape Beth and she assumed Janice often called in to work. All the better, Beth needed as many shifts as she could get. More work meant more money and less time focusing on the past—or worrying over the future. Not to mention it would be an easy way to avoid making friends. She didn’t need to socialize.

“—jeans and a black top,” Mo was saying before she noticed the look on Beth’s face. “Girl, you better learn how to keep in conversation before you return tonight. Make sure you wear comfortable shoes. Shorts are okay. No yoga pants, please. Don’t be one of those girls.”

Beth lived in leggings but Mo didn’t need to know that. Laughing slightly, she replied, “Got it. No lazying around clothes,” and walked out the front door. Mo may have been a little abrasive and outspoken but she was immediately accepting and friendly. Beth didn’t know what John had told the woman, but she figured it wasn’t much. Hell, John didn’t even know half the truth. He had only assumed enough to offer her a way out.

~~~

After a catnap and a lengthy shower, Beth felt oddly refreshed. She had only been in town a couple hours yet she felt more secure than she had in years. That’s not saying much, she laughed dryly to herself.

Letting her long dark brown locks air dry, she decided to go minimal with the makeup, as well. She hated foundation, how it dried out her skin. All she needed were some strokes of the mascara brush to accentuate her already long, full eyelashes and some target red lipstick. Enough to show she had put some effort into her getup without overdoing it or looking like she was trying to impress. She wasn’t. The last thing she wanted was attention or to be noticed. She preferred to fly underneath the radar but knew that looking nice went farther with tips.

She donned dark washed jean shorts and a black razorback tank top. After looking in the mirror and seeing the still visible yellow markers of a vice grip on her upper arm, she grabbed a sheer black shirt to go over her tank. If her short stint in the bar earlier proved anything, she would be sweating easily by mid shift. Checking to make sure every window and door was locked in the small two bedroom, two bath lake house before leaving, Beth forced any lingering anxiety away. Still, better to be safe than sorry, she excused her actions. She was sorry enough already for having been spineless but wanted to take charge of her life again more than anything.

The house was far from perfect but she was determined to make it home. The entry opened up into a hallway with the living room on the left and stairs leading to the second floor on the right. The wallpaper was peeling in every room and the carpet had some stubborn stains that made the place appear shabby. While it came partly furnished, furniture was limited to barely the essentials: dinner table accompanied by four mismatching chairs, loveseat, lazyboy, dresser, bedside endstand, and a queen bed. It wasn’t much but it would work. Beth hadn’t been looking for a place to lounge around in. She planned on spending most of her time working. Her favorite feature was the fireplace and mantel, the main attraction of the living room. Underneath the stairs was a small entry closet and further down the hallway was the kitchen, a dream kitchen housing an island and a stacked double oven with a set of French doors that opened out onto a brick patio. Weeds and grass were peeking through and the backyard hadn’t been mowed in weeks but beyond the tall grass was the calm waters of the lake. The small, shallow, private lake was Beth’s favorite part of the property. The left side of the small two-acre lot was lined with woods and an overgrown pebbled path lead the way from the patio to the neighbor’s hedge line along the opposite side.

John had also helped with securing the rental, signing the lease himself for her. She refused to leave a paper trail and he was the only one aware of her whereabouts. Not even old Mr. Findlay down the block from her old home knew where she was heading. Sure, she wanted to tell him but he insisted on not knowing. He was the only soul who knew the truth behind everything. He even paid for her private martial arts classes with John at his home. Though, after John had seen a few of the bruises on her arms and legs and then later across her back, he stopped charging Mr. Findlay. While his curiosity of the situation was obvious, he didn’t push the issue and Beth had been thankful for that.

With her head bubbling with the possibilities of a future, one she only recently had a grasp on, she walked out the front door, turning the door’s handle to double check that it was locked. Satisfied, she began the mile-long trek to Mosey’s for her first shift.

~~~

Twenty minutes before she had to be there, Beth walked in to a semi packed bar. The bar itself was filled but most of the tables remained empty, allowing her the ability to take in the place again without feeling rushed to start her shift. Mo was behind the bar with a guy who had his back turned to her. Even hunched over the bar, Beth could tell he was a full head taller than she was. His hard features when he turned to her caused her to take a step back. She quickly scolded herself for the automatic reaction, not liking the vulnerability she unintentionally showed for that one split second.

Hurrying to gain control of herself, she brushed her hair back and acknowledged Mo, “Where do you want me to start?”

“Early. I like you already. You ever bartended before?”

“Been a few years.”

“Then hop on in here. It’s like riding a bike. I’ve got to get back to the office. If you need anything, Nick here can help you out. Laney will be in around five to handle the floor.” Skeleton shift. Beth didn’t know what to make of that in regards to shifts and tips. “You’ll have to do a pour test real quick before you can serve bar guests. Nick can oversee that. If aren’t good enough, you’ll switch with Laney.” Without sticking around any further to make sure Beth was settled, Mo headed back to the office, briefly acknowledging the cook waving her back to the kitchen first.

The intensity of Nick’s gaze followed Beth as she slipped out of her jean jacket, placing it and her purse on a low shelf behind the bar. She didn’t have to look in his direction to know she had his full, unwanted attention and it was she he addressed, “You might want to lose the sweater, too.”

Not a chance in hell. “I think I’ll be fine, thanks.”

“Suit yourself,” he retorted before reverting his attention to the blond he previously hid with his big build.

“I’m sorry, I just…I’m more comfortable this way,” Beth quickly tried to make up for her unintentional snub, gaining a slight glare from Barbie when Nick turned back around. Why do I even care if I offend him? “Besides, with long sleeves I can at least give people the illusion of boisterous muscles.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” he chuckled while giving her a full once over, simultaneously voicing his obvious opinion of her small frame and pleasing Bitchy Barbie. Her name is going to keep getting longer and longer, I can already tell.

Bitchy Barbie appeared to be dressed to the nines, though Beth could only see her slim fitting bright red halter. Beth guessed it was a mini dress paired with heels. Quickly glancing around at the other guests, it was obvious how hard the girl was trying. The girl just screamed desperate and Beth silently predicted an addition to the girl’s sorry name: Bimbo. Bitchy Bimbo Barbie. The platinum blonde hair nearly solidified the deal, but then she spoke and hammered the nail into the coffin.

“Nicky, darling, buy me a side salad,” she stroked his arm and staked an unnecessary claim. Beth could only hide her smirk behind her hair. If this was the type of girl Nicky liked, Triple B needn’t worry.

Yanking his arm back, he didn’t even try to hide his annoyance, “Salad? Sorry, side salad? We aren’t a damn Panera Bread, Lindsey.” Ehh, Triple B is much more fitting.

“Well you don’t have to be so rude, Nicky.”

“And you can learn what’s on the menu. Fried food won’t kill you.” I’m guessing it will, Beth thought as she turned away and tried to give the bickering couple some space, only to realize the poor girl moved to a nearby table a few seconds later when Nick growled, “and the name’s not Nicky, damnit.”

Despite her immediate annoyance with the girl, Beth felt bad for the Bimbo and addressed Nick, against her better judgment, “You should apologize to your girl, Nicky. It’s only a salad.” His zero to sixty outburst over a simple meal request—albeit something the bar neglected to offer on their menu, even she knew this—bothered her. The memories his anger triggered irritated her. She had put a few hundred miles between herself and the man she hated. She took care to cover her tracks well. She knew it wouldn’t be a quick fix. The wounds he caused were cut too deep. Still, she didn’t want to constantly be fighting off the urge to run or hide. She was already doing both.

Nick’s only response was to pin her with a glare, one she immediately closed in on herself from. Noted: don’t piss Nicky off. He silently showed her how to clock in before walking off to the back of the establishment. Oh yeah, no problem, I’ll just figure out how to ring in shit myself. Thanks for the rope to hang myself with, asshole, Beth fumed to herself as a few guests asked for another round of drinks. Yes, and let’s not bother with that pour test either. No worries, I’ll just get fired before I even claim my tips tonight. Peachy.