Sunday, June 22, 2014

The Rat Pack or ACDC? #SampleSunday of Silent Graves

Excerpt from Silent Graves:

Chapter 2

Woodbridge, Virginia
September, Tuesday morning

A couple months had passed, but I was still getting used to sleeping alone. Most mornings I would roll on my left side, open my eyes, and expect Deb to be lying there. Every time I did this, it met with the same result. I was alone.

The mornings were hard to take. At night my mind was usually preoccupied with the day’s events, a current case, or the complicated relationship that existed between Paige and me. We had just closed a case a few days ago, and it was easier to let go of that than the continuing innuendos that remained, as fissures, beneath the surface of our relationship. I loved her, in a way, but not on the level she required. She acted as if everything was fine, but I knew—I sensed—it wasn’t.

I rolled over and faced the clock. Five a.m.

I returned to my back and stared at the ceiling. It was hard adapting to the early mornings, but these days I usually beat the alarm. Even on days off, my body would wake me.

ACDC’s Thunderstruck came on, and, at the same time, my cell vibrated on the nightstand. I rolled over again and sat up. It wasn’t like I would be getting more sleep anyhow.

“Rise and shine, Kid.”

I rubbed a hand across my brow. Even though I had earned being called by name from Supervisory Special Agent Jack Harper, periodically old habits would resurface and, with it, the nicknames. “What’s up?”

“What’s up? Am I some friend now? I’m your boss.”

“I’ll save professional for office hours.” I said the sardonic statement with a grin I’m sure he didn’t miss. In this career, there was no such thing as set hours.

“Come in straight to the meeting room today. We’ve got a new case.”


“What’s that noise in the background? Have you been partying all night?”

I hit the button and turned it off. “It’s ACDC, classic rock.”

“Well, it’s not music. Music is—”

“I know—The Rat Pack, Natalie Cole, Michael Bublé.”

“Don’t knock it, Kid, and there’s nothing wrong with Michael.”

Yeah, I suppose, if you’re good with the crooner music in the first place.

“See you soon,” I said.

“Don’t be late.”

I rolled my eyes, wishing the expression weren’t lost on the walls of my bedroom, yet thankful he couldn’t witness it, or I might be searching for a new job.

I rose from the bed and flicked on the stereo, turning up Nickelback’s Burn it to the Ground until the glass in this old house rattled. I loved this song, and loud was the way I preferred it.

I had an hour to make it to the office. I wrapped my hands and wrists with tape, and then started beating on the heavy bag I had installed in the bedroom. Deb never would have let it happen, but I didn’t have her to worry about anymore.

With each impact, I let it go—the stress, the anger, the frustration, the lack of control. The physical movement drained the negative and infused me with the positive.

Adrenaline pumped through me, and I embraced it, as I roundhouse kicked the bag. It swung on its chains. I reset the bag and had at it again.

The song changed to the next on the playlist—Poison’s Nothing But a Good Time.

Damn. Now this was music.

I uppercut and jabbed at the bag mercilessly, going at it as if sucking its life force.

Thirty minutes later, sweating profusely, I headed for the shower. There was no better way to start the day. In a matter of minutes, I’d be facing the next monster to cross paths with the FBI.

Want to read more? Silent Graves is available for download from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Apple, Kobo, and Scribd.
It is also available in print.