HUNT THE DAWN Book 2 in the Fatal Dreams Series has been birthed into the world! The novel took me two and a half years to write--I wrote it, edited it, then scrapped everything I'd written and started over! That seems to be a pattern for me. I did the same thing when writing RACE THE DARKNESS!
I know I shouldn't have favorites, but Lathan in the hero of my heart. He's such a big, strong, scary looking dude, but he's got an endearing vulnerability that makes me all warm and fuzzy on the inside.
I hope you enjoy the first chapter of Lathan and Evanee's story.
Scent is the most pervasive of our senses. In an average twenty-four
hour period, a person will breathe approximately 20,000 breaths. For every
inhale, the human brain automatically catalogues the scent in the air with the
activity happening at the time of the breath, creating a scent memory.
—Dr.
A.K. Isler, Journal of Olfactory Sense
Chapter 1
Minds
of Madness and Murder. The glossy poster advertising
today’s seminar was taped to the closed auditorium door. Someone had drawn
tears of blood dripping from each of the M’s.
Lathaniel Montgomery’s gut gnawed at his backbone, but not because
of the poster, or the bloody tears.
Holy Jesus. How was he going to manage being in an audience
surrounded by hundreds of people, with all their smells, all their memories?
Gill touched his arm like he always did to get Lathan’s attention.
“Going in?”
“Yeah.” But Lathan’s feet had grown roots into the floor. He hated
how nothing in his life was normal. He hated the fucked up sequence of genetic
code that enlarged the olfactory regions of his brain. He hated that he smelled
everything. And he especially hated the ability to smell the energy imprints of
people’s memories. Scent Memories. Memories that could overwhelm him and
annihilate his
reality.
Gill stepped up close and examined Lathan’s left eye—the eye the SMs
always invaded first, the eye that would roll around independently of the other
one, making him appear in need of an exorcism.
“Quit with the eye exam. I’m all right.” For now. Concentration kept
the SMs out of his mind. Vigilance kept them under control.
“Your seat is directly in front of the podium. You won’t have any
trouble reading Dr. Jonah’s lips. After the presentation, introduce yourself.
He’ll recognize your name.” Gill gave him the don’t-screw-this-up look.
“Convince him about The Strategist.”
The Strategist.
Lathan’s freakish ability generated leads in nearly every cold case
he worked. Except for The Strategist’s.
“Explain how each person has a scent signature. Explain that you
smell the same signature on thirty-eight unsolved murders. Explain that the FBI
won’t do anything unless he confirms there is a connection
among the kills.”
“Save the lecture. This whole fucking thing was my dumbass idea.”
Could he maintain control of the SMs long enough to make it to the end of the
presentation? “If I—”
“There is no if. You’re not going to lose control.” Gill had read
his worries as easily as Lathan read his friend’s lips. “Maybe I should go in
with you.”
“I don’t need you holding my hand.” Lathan showed him a raised
middle finger—a salute they always used in jest—forced a smile of bravado
across his lips, and then pushed through the doors before he made like a
chicken shit and bolted from the building. Barely inside, the SMs hit. Millions
of memories warred for his attention, tugged at the vision in his left eye. He
sucked air through his mouth to diminish the intensity, maintain control.
Never in his life had he been around so many people at once and been
coherent. Maybe he should leave.
No.
He clenched his fists. Knuckles popped, grounding him, giving him an
edge over the SMs.
He strode down the steps toward the front of the room.
Thank-whoever-was-in-charge the presentation hadn’t started yet.
An empty seat in the front row had a pink paper taped to it. RESERVED.
He would’ve preferred the anonymity of the back row, but he couldn’t see Dr.
Jonah’s face from that far away. He ripped off the sheet and sat in the cramped
space.
His shoulders were wider than the damned chair. His arms overflowed
the boundary of his seat. The woman on his left angled away from him, the
cinnamon scent of her irritation infusing the air. Typical reaction to his
size. And with the tattoo on his cheek, she probably assumed he’d served a
sentence in the slammer.
The woman on his right reeked. But it wasn’t her fault. The rot of
her body dying was a stench he recognized, along with the sharp chemical tang
of the drugs that were killing her so she could live. Cancer and chemo. Her
emaciated features evidenced the battle she fought. And yet, she was here. At
this presentation. She was a warrior. And he was a fucking pussy for
bellyaching about the SMs.
His ears picked up a faint snapping noise. Clapping. Everyone
applauded enthusiastically.
Dr. Jonah walked to the podium. His clothes were baggy and ill
fitting, his face wrinkled, his head topped with a mass of fluttery gray hair.
Even though he looked like he’d just awakened from sleeping under an overpass,
he possessed the look of frazzled genius. The look of someone whose work
mattered more than living life. The look of the nation’s most respected
profiler.
A door on Lathan’s right opened. A young woman lugged a folding
chair across the room. Toward him.
He held his breath.
No. She couldn’t be there for him. No one here knew him. Knew about
him. Except Gill. And Gill wouldn’t—
She opened her chair and sat facing him. With an overly enthusiastic
smile that showed the silver in her back molars, she started to sign.
He looked away. A long bitter whoosh of air escaped his lips.
He didn’t need an interpreter.
The combination of what little hearing he still possessed, speech
reading, and his nose worked just fucking fine. Most of the time.
Anger burned a gaping hole through his concentration. The
interpreter’s memories invaded the vision of his left eye.
She
swiped a quick stroke of mascara across her lashes
and examined the effect up-close
in the bathroom mirror. Good enough. Getting the day over with, getting back to
Cara mattered more than her makeup.
“I
should go.” Her voice lacked as much conviction as her will.
“Baby,
come on back to bed, just for a little while.” Cara threw back the covers.
She’d strapped Big Johnnie around her waist. He pointed proudly perpendicular.
She
glanced at the bedside clock. She was going to be late. It’d be worth it.
The SM continued to play in front of his left eye. His right eye
focused on Dr. Jonah. He pressed his left eye closed with his fingers to block
out the images, but they projected on the back of his eyelid. Hard to focus on
reality. Disorienting as hell. Don’t lose control.
His right-eyed vision of reality wavered. Almost like a double
exposure, he was able to see the stage, see Dr. Jonah, but superimposed over it
was the interpreter and her sex bunny having a girls-only party.
His heart punched against his chest wall, pumping so hard he felt
the echo of it in his damaged ears. Fuck. The SMs were about to stage a coup.
“I’m out of here.” Did he shout the words, whisper them, or even
speak them at all? Didn’t know. Didn’t care.
He sprinted out of his seat and up the auditorium stairs, feeling
the weight of hundreds of eyes watching him.
Gulping giant fish-out-of-water breaths through his mouth, he
slammed through the door, burst into the hallway, and then barreled out the
exterior door.
Away from the people, away from the damned interpreter, the SMs
vanished. His sight returned to normal. He’d figure out some other way to talk
to Dr. Jonah. No way was he taking that kind of risk again.
The stark fall afternoon held a hint of winter chill, but he didn’t
mind. He was always hot and the temperature suited his mood. He hurried across
the lawn to his motorcycle.
A wisp of scent tickled his nostrils. The fleeting aroma possessed a
sickening familiarity that felt out of place for his surroundings. He plugged
his nose against the smell, refusing to allow one bit of air to enter his nose
until he was on the road.
Someone grabbed his arm from behind.
His heart stopped. Adrenaline shot from his brain straight to his
fist.
He swung at the same time he turned. Punch first, ask questions later—his
body’s default reaction ever since the attack that cost him his hearing.
He barely stopped himself from impacting with the guy’s face. Lathan
lunged forward a few steps, feigning aggression, expecting the guy to retreat
and he did, tripping over his own feet, almost falling on his ass. Good. That
was one way to get someone to realize he took his personal space seriously.
“Don’t fucking touch me.” From the force of the vibrations in his
throat, he had yelled the words. He didn’t care. He forced himself to breathe
from his mouth. Didn’t want to look like more of freak than he already did by
standing there plugging his nose.
The guy swallowed and nodded, then swallowed again. “I’m Dr. Jonah’s
partner.” The guy’s mouth formed the words in perfect precision. “Dr. Jonah wants
. . . return . . . presentation.”
The words you, to, do, new all looked identical
when spoken. Conversation with a stranger was a recipe. Mix the bits of sound
he heard with the speech he read. Sprinkle in the context of the sentence. And
bake with the emotions he smelled.
Why would Dr. Jonah want him to return to the lecture? Why would Dr.
Jonah stop the presentation to tell his partner to come after him? He wouldn’t.
Lathan must’ve read the guy’s words wrong. He sure as hell wasn’t going to ask
the guy to repeat himself. Every time he did, people spoke in such an
exaggerated manner even God wouldn’t be able to divine the words leaving their
mouths.
The guy opened his mouth to say more, but scratched at a spot on the
side of his nostril blocking every word from Lathan’s view. His ears only
picked up random sounds, nothing that added up to a word. The best way to
handle not understanding speech: Silence. Anything else, ended with people
looking at him like he was stupid.
He sat on his bike and flicked the ignition switch. Underneath him,
the engine pulsed; the vibrations traveled through his body. His heart, his
breath, the engine, all moved in one synergistic rhythm. The closest he ever
got to music.
The guy stood in front of the bike, waving his hands like an amateur
cheerleader to get Lathan’s attention.
He backed the motorcycle from the space.
The persistent little pecker jogged next to him.
Lathan kicked his Fat Bob into gear and shot out of the parking lot.
He needed to be alone. Alone meant no SMs. He needed to be home. Home meant
sanctuary. But every sanctuary was part prison.
***
“What time you off work, Evan?” Carnivorous anticipation spread
across the trucker’s face.
At some point during every shift at Sweet Buns and Eats truck stop,
Evanee Brown was grateful the label maker had run out of ink halfway through
her name. The patrons spoke the name on her tag with a familiarity that made
her stifle her gag reflex. If they had used her complete name—well, full-blown
barfing would’ve been bad for business.
She pasted a super-huge smile across her mouth and lied, “Oh, I’m,
uh, working a ten so, hmm, whatever time ten hours from now is.” Hopefully, her
voice carried the right amount of empty-headed dingbat. Acting stupid earned
better tips than being smart.
“Evan, one of these times I’m passing through I’ll have to show you
the inside of my truck. It’s real nice.” He stretched the words real nice into
one long taffy-like string.
She smothered an eye roll.
The trucker was old enough to have known the original Casanova, yet
still made the same X-rated offer every time he came in. She glanced at the
clock hanging above the door. Any minute, Shirl—her replacement—should be
arriving. Couldn’t happen quick enough.
“How about an Ernie Burger, rare, everything, side of onion rings?”
She worked to maintain her light tone. She wanted the twenty-dollar bill he
always left for her tip.
“You remembered my usual.” He smiled, his teeth a post-apocalyptic
city; abandoned, jagged, decayed. “You know I can’t resist an Ernie Burger.”
She scrawled his order on the slip, and then left the table, feeling
the slime of more than one man’s gaze on her body. That was to be expected when
the uniform requirements were four-inch heels, shorts that barely covered her
ass, and cleavage. Lots of cleavage.
Ernie liked his girls barely decent, said it was the best business
decision he’d ever made. He was right. Sweet Buns was packed twenty-four seven,
three sixty-five. Most days the tips were great. Hell, there wasn’t anywhere
within forty-five minutes where she could earn as much as she made at Sweet
Buns.
Ernie met her at the kitchen window with a pair of tongs in his hand
and anger on his face. His sharply slashed brows met over his eyes, a scowl
constantly gripped his lips, and the strange vibe of restrained violence intimidated
most everyone and kept the patrons from being too grabby-feely. He looked like
a homicidal hash slinger, but didn’t have any bodies stashed in the freezer. At
least none she’d found.
Bald head glistening from working over the grill, he scanned the new
order then turned to flip a burger while he spoke, “Shirl’s in back. Today
she’s green.”
“Kermit or neon?” Shirl changed her hair color as often as most
people changed their socks.
“Kermit.” Ernie flashed one of his rare smiles in her direction, and
then hid it behind a frown. “You keeping up the maintenance on that little car
of yours?”
Her Miata. The only thing that remained from her old life. Keeping
it was impractical, stupid even, but she refused to lose everything. It was her
beacon of hope that one day she’d have enough cash to drive it right out of
Sundew, Ohio and never look back. “I haven’t been driving much.” Code for
paying-my-bills-and-trying-to-save-money-is-my-priority.
Ernie smacked two quarter pound burgers on the grill. Flames hissed and
sizzled over the meat. He didn’t look up. “After shift tomorrow I’ll change
your oil and check it over for you. And I don’t want nothing for it.”
His offer percolated in a slow drip through her ears and finally
into her brain.
He gave her a sideways glance. “You hear me?”
She forgot how to flap her lips and make sound to form words so she
rocked her head up and down on her shoulders. His unexpected kindness left her
muddle-minded. When was the last time someone had been kind without expecting
something in return?
When was the last time she hadn’t felt absolutely alone?
Ernie removed a burger from the grill and slapped it in the bun. He
motioned with his head toward the back room. “Get out of here. Soak your feet
in Epson Salts and stay off them for the rest of the night.”
His words, spoken at the end of every shift, to every one of his
girls, knocked her out of her stupor.
“Okay.” She started around back.
“Shirl! Order up!” Ernie yelled, his voice loud enough to be heard
throughout the diner.
Shirl dashed down the hall, her heels clattering as loud as a shoed
horse. Evanee handed her open checks to the green-haired girl like a member of
the Olympic relay team passing a baton, then walked out the back door.
The first thing she noticed was the rumble, roar, and release of
pressure from the 18-wheelers parked behind the diner. The noise as constant as
a heartbeat.
A brisk autumn breeze raised goose bumps on her skin. Sunshine
melted them away. Tilting her face to the sun to soak up some vitamin D, she
leaned against the building and pried her pumps from her swollen feet. Each
shoe came off with an indecent sucking sound and left a deep red cleft around
her foot.
Ahhh. The cold pavement was a delight against her hot soles.
She walked across the parking lot, her legs moving in an awkward
flamingo step as they recalibrated to being flatfooted.
The hardest part of the day wasn’t the eight hours in the heels. It
was this moment, when she had time to remember her belly flop off the cliff of
comfort into the cesspool of white trash. From a safe, easy life, to this truck
stop waitress existence. From trendy apartment, to living behind Sweet Buns at
Morty’s Motor Lodge. From privacy to sharing a room with Brittany, the town
whore. From profound ignorance, to the realization that everything good she used
to have came from being a whore too.
But she wasn’t going to think about that. Nope. Not going to.
Halfway across the parking lot, she spotted Brittany’s special
signal.
The ribbon tied to their doorknob used to be pretty-girl pink, but
had long since faded to a shade of old and used.
“Damn it, Brittany.”
The steady stream of truckers kept Brittany bumping around the
clock. At least she always made her guys rent another room for the hour. Unless
she had a loaded one. Someone with thousands to burn. Brittany being customer
service oriented gave those guys a discount by letting them use her room—the
one she shared with Evanee. They’d be in there all night, possibly even days.
Now Evanee stood eyeball to eyeball with being homeless for the
night.
A weight bore down on her shoulders, threatened to buckle her knees,
crush her into the pavement.
She shook her head, flinging the bad thoughts out of her mind like a
dog shaking off water. There had to be a bright side. It always seemed that if
she looked hard enough, long enough she could find something good hiding behind
every bad thing. Or maybe the search for good, was just a distraction from the
bad. She’d have to think about that one later.
She wasn’t homeless. Homeless meant no roof over her head, nowhere
to go. She had her car and could drive herself anywhere.
She fished through the wads of cash and change in her tiny apron
pocket, finding her key ring. Once inside the Miata, she locked the doors, and then
counted through the day’s tips. Some ones, but mostly fives, tens, even a few twenties
from the most desperate of truckers who thought if they tipped her high, they’d
eventually earn some alone time with her.
With her tips from yesterday, she had enough cash for her car
payment with twenty-three dollars left over. Not enough for another motel room.
She shoved the money back into her apron pocket and set it on the floor.
The bow on the door fluttered on the breeze, its movement more
effective than a neon sign flashing Sex-In-Progress. Heat scorched her cheeks. She
felt like a slow-witted peeping Tom staring at the ribbon, knowing all manner
of sexual acrobatics were occurring inside the room.
Evanee started her car. The motor turned over with a quiet hum that
instantly lifted her mood. No matter how impractical or how flashy, she loved
her Miata.
No particular destination in mind, she pulled out of Morty’s and
headed toward the country away from semis and people. She took one winding
hilly road after another until she found an isolated spot.
The road passed through a serpentine valley encircled by low, undulating
hills. A barbed wire fence ran parallel with the pavement. Cows probably grazed
there in the summer, but this late in the fall the grass had shriveled to
spikes of straw. The lonesome beauty of the land, the way the hills folded
around her, soothed something inside her she hadn’t realized needed comfort
until that moment.
See there was always a bright side. She would never have found this
place if Brittany hadn’t confiscated their room for a conjugal visit with a
horny trucker.
She pulled over and cut the ignition.
She could spend the night here. It’d be like camping out. Sort of.
Leaning back against the headrest, she let her eyes slide shut. Sometimes
she forgot a world existed beyond Sweet Buns, Morty’s, and the constant rumble
of semis.
Silence. Pure and perfect. The best thing she’d heard in weeks. The
quiet lulled her into relaxation, into sleep.
***
Evanee startled awake with a full body lurch. Her heart ping-ponged
off the walls of her chest. Breath choked in and out of her lungs.
She’d had a nightmare.
Another
nightmare in the infinite string of bad dreams she could never remember. But
this time fear walked up her spine while she was awake like the nightmare was
just beginning.
“I thought you might be in trouble.” The words, muffled and muted
through the closed driver’s window, didn’t disguise the voice’s sinister
chocolaty smoothness.
Junior Malone.
Fight or flight or freeze—she froze, solid as an ice sculpture.
She glanced in the rearview mirror, saw Junior’s tow truck parked behind
her car. Confirmation. It really was him. She couldn’t remain paralyzed. Fight
and flight stood on either side of her, better friends to her than frozen ever
would be. She turned her head toward the window to face her stepbrother.
Her molester.
Her rapist.
Junior’s straight nose, his plump lips, his sharp, handsome features
captured the best of Zac Efron, Tom Cruise, and a young Robert Redford in a
body that everyone in Sundew was irresistibly drawn to. Women fought for his
attention, men wanted to be him, and everyone adored him for his wholesome nice-guy
personality.
No one saw the real him, except for her. Junior Malone was nothing
more than a beautifully wrapped package. Gorgeous on the outside, but inside he
was something more vile than maggots squirming and writhing on rotting road
kill.
“Fuck off.” Anger and a childhood full of pain—caused by him—dictated
her volume.
“Darlin’ I was worried about you. You’ve been out here awhile.”
Sincerity, kindness, concern all sounded in his voice—all bullshit. His voice
might be the sweetest siren’s song to everyone else, but she knew the real
him. He didn’t have any feelings, except for the sadistic kind.
“How do you know how long I’ve been out here?”
He raised his palms in the air. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t my idea. I
swear. Tiffany at Sundew National wanted me to make sure you didn’t skip town
with their car.”
Their car? What kind of bank freaked if the payment was only a few
days late? The kind in Sundew where the loan officer knew every mistake Evanee
had ever made and expected her to dive head first into the shallow end of
stupid. Again.
But what if Junior’s words were chock-full-of-lies and designed to
manipulate her behavior?
Had he been tracking her? Had Tiffany told him to? Tomorrow she’d
get her answers when she went to make her payment.
Evanee started the car, shifted into gear, and then slammed her foot
down on the gas pedal. Her hip punched off the seat from the force. The Miata’s
tires spun, she heard gravel flying, imagined the stones hitting Junior’s
perfect face. Ha!
The engine sputtered. Died. The car coasted forward only a few feet.
Her heart sank down, down, down, until it rested on the pavement
beneath the Miata.
Damn her and her genius idea to save money by cancelling her cell
phone service.
Junior, hands in his coverall pockets as if he were out on a nature
jaunt, strolled the ten feet—all the further her Miata had gotten—to her. Each
step closer squeezed the air from her lungs until the only sound was her
wheezing.
“You got a leak in your fuel tank.”
“You did it.” She knew that as well as she knew his name.
“I’ll patch it up for you. But I need you to get out of the car so I
can jack it up.”
“I’m not getting out of this car.” She wasn’t going to give him what
he wanted. Her.
“Aw…now don’t be that way. Come on out here. We can chat, you know,
catch up on things, while I fix your car.” He paused, waiting for her to capitulate
to his wishes.
She had never given in passively or politely and she wasn’t going to
start now.
“I saw Matt in town the other day.” His tone was innocent gossipy,
but the words were a barbed whip, lashing her, raising painful welts of
memory—of her choosing to stay in town for Matt, of her deluding herself into
believing sex and money equaled affection, of him randomly casting her off like
a used napkin.
“Dad’s watching Matt. Looking for that special moment when Matt
sticks a toe out of line and then he’ll arrest him. He’s not going to be passive
like Sheriff Bailey was.” Junior and his Dad hated Matt solely because being
with Matt had made her untouchable. Matt was rich, prominent, and good friends
with both the old sheriff and the mayor.
“Leave Matt out of this.” She didn’t want Junior’s dad, the shiny
new Sheriff to cause Matt any problems.
“You shouldn’t be defending him.” Junior lashed the barbed whip again.
She heard the quiver of anticipation in his words—a warning. He pulled
a tool from his coveralls pocket and held it in the middle of the driver’s
window. The glass shattered. Shards sprinkled over her legs like glittering
confetti. The glass hadn’t even stopped falling and she was scrambling across
the console to the passenger side. Grabbing for her shoes, she jumped out the
door.
Her
heels were her only weapon. Fight her only friend.
Abbie Roads writes dark emotional novels featuring damaged characters, but always gives her hero and heroine a happy ending... after torturing them for three hundred pages. Her debut novel RACE THE DARKNESS was named a Publishers Weekly Top 10 Pick for Fall. You can find Abbie here: Website, Facebook, Twitter. Be sure to sign up for her Newsletter to receive exclusive content and secret giveaways.
Fabulous excerpt!
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