Ride the Lightning : Sinister in Savannah Book 1

by Aimee Nicole Walker

  Ride the Lightning (Sinister in Savannah Book One)

  Copyright © 2020 Aimee Nicole Walker

  aimeenicolewalker@blogspot.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to the actual person, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Photographer © Wander Aguiar—www.wanderaguiar.com

  Cover art © Jay Aheer of Simply Defined Art—www.simplydefinedart.com

  Editing provided by Miranda Vescio of V8 Editing and Proofreading—www.facebook.com/V8Editing

  Proofreading provided by Judy Zweifel of Judy’s Proofreading—www.judysproofreading.com

  Also Jill Wexler and Michael Beckett

  Interior Design and Formatting provided by Stacey Ryan Blake of Champagne Book Design—www.champagnebookdesign.com

  All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original publisher only.

  This book contains sexually explicit material and is only intended for adult readers.

  Copyright and Trademark Acknowledgments

  The author acknowledges the copyrights and trademarked status and trademark owners of the trademarks and copyrights mentioned in this work of fiction.

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Other Books by Aimee Nicole Walker

  Acknowledgments

  About Aimee Nicole Walker

  To the truth seekers, promise keepers, and the guarded hearts. This one’s for you.

  “There’s a vicious storm coming, love. I can feel it in my bones.”

  Jonah could hear his granny’s voice as clearly as if she were standing right beside him. Maeve St. John, the daughter of a lifelong sailor, had predicted changes in weather better than any meteorologist on television. Some people had thought she was bat-shit crazy; Jonah had known she was pure magic. When others would seek shelter, Jonah and his granny had sat on the porch and reveled in the beauty of a thunderstorm.

  “You’re witnessing Mother Nature at her finest, Jonah. Life is like a thunderstorm—unpredictable, beautiful, and sometimes dangerous.”

  From Maeve, Jonah had inherited his black hair, olive-toned skin, and weird green eyes with a hue so dark they looked black in certain lights. She’d also taught him how to read the clouds and study the wind. A strong breeze blew across the parking lot, and the sense of trouble made the hair stand up on his neck.

  He’d blamed his headache on stress after spending twelve hours in endless meetings where he’d had to defend his skillset to his immediate supervisor in front of everyone in their division, including the deputy director. Just another miserable Monday. As soon as he stepped outside to leave, Jonah discovered the shift in barometric pressure was the real culprit for the skull-splitting pain. Granny felt the weather in her bones, while Jonah felt it in his sinus cavities.

  The temperature had dropped at least ten degrees and the wind had intensified since his lunch break. Jonah hoped he had enough time to run a quick errand on his way home before the storm hit. He wanted to watch the show from his front porch, just like he’d done at his granny and pop’s house where he grew up. It wasn’t a matter of if the severe weather arrived, but when.

  Nighttime thunderstorms were the best. The lightning was brighter as it split the sky and arced toward earth, and the rumble of thunder sounded louder and more menacing. Could this be the weather front that matched or exceeded the intensity of the maelstrom raging inside him?

  Jonah debated going straight home, but he needed his Caramel Bugles fix after a day like this, and he’d blown through last week’s stash in two days. He loved his job as a criminal analyst for Georgia Bureau of Investigations, where he used technology to predict and prevent crimes and capture bad guys. He loathed his boss, Supervisory Agent Butch Trexler, just as ardently.

  If brewing storms reminded Jonah of his granny, then Trexler reminded him of Pop. It wasn’t a compliment either. Oscar St. John had been one mean son of a bitch who had bullied and brow-beaten everything and everyone into submission. Trexler seemed to live for the moments he could demean and humiliate Jonah and flex his power over him. If things didn’t change at the bureau soon, he’d be forced to make a tough decision before the job took a hard toll on his health. Leaving was complicated. Someone dear to Jonah had stuck their neck out for him so he could get an interview for the position. He also didn’t want to give Trexler the satisfaction of running him off.

  Jonah mentally shoved the thoughts aside and concentrated on driving across town to his neighborhood. Part of Thomas Square Streetcar Historic District had undergone heavy revitalization. Investors bought the homes for a low price, renovated them, and flipped the houses for a profit, which brought an influx of hipsters to the area. The other half, where Jonah lived, was the exact opposite. Residents and businesses flooded out of the neighborhood, leaving abandoned homes and buildings that bordered on derelict. His destination, Ling’s Corner Market, was the only surviving business in the strip mall on Bull Street near his house.

  Several cars were in the parking lot, but only one caught his attention. The driver had backed into a spot instead of pulling in. When Jonah parked beside the car, he noticed the engine was still running. This wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where you left your keys in the ignition unless you wanted someone to steal your car, or you planned to rob the corner market because you figured the elderly Asian-American owners made an easy target. He quickly exited the car and made his way toward the store. Jonah must’ve wrenched the door open with too much enthusiasm because all eyes turned to him. Mrs. Ling was behind the counter and smiled softly when their gazes collided. Maybe he’d overreacted to the car out front and someone was just passing through and didn’t know better than to take their damn car keys with them.

  No, his gut said he was right. Like the approaching storm, Jonah could smell trouble brewing. No one was acting suspicious as he scanned the customers. The patrons met Jonah’s perusal with stares of their own, ranging from curiosity to fear and even disgust. He was used to it, even if the reasons had changed over the years.

  He’d always stood out—pun intended—due to his height. He started kindergarten as the tallest kid in his class, a title he retained until he joined the military after graduation. The years in between garnered attention for his awkwardness, a nerdy brain, and his inability to use his size to achieve glory for the various sports teams, their coaches, or Oscar. He tried. God, had he tried.

  These days, it wasn’t his broad six-five frame that drew everyone’s eye. It was the silver scar slashing diagonally across his face from above his right eyebrow to the left corner of his mouth. Some people seemed uncomfortable and broke eye contact. Others reacted to the scar with fascination and saw him as a challenge. H
e’d gotten laid many times by playing up the bad boy image.

  Jonah caught sight of himself on the television screen showing the live security camera feed and nearly winced. Jesus, St. John. A lock of black hair had fallen across his forehead, nearly covering one of his oddly colored eyes. Obsidian, his granny had called them. The scowl on Jonah’s face made him look much older than thirty-five. Forcing himself to unclench his jaw and relax his shoulders, Jonah took his time perusing the aisles. One by one, the customers bought their items and exited the store, and yet, the car with the running motor remained parked out front.

  “Hello, Jonah,” Mrs. Ling called out as he approached the counter.

  “Hello, Mrs. Ling,” he replied, studying her for any signs of duress. “I’m here for my stash.”

  Every Monday, without fail, he picked up the ten bags of Caramel Bugles—never more, never less—the Lings set aside for him. It would be a perfect opportunity for Mrs. Ling to signal something was wrong by pretending not to know what he was talking about.

  “Of course,” she said.

  After she ducked into the back room, Jonah walked through the market looking for spots where the asshole could be hiding. In the far corner, back by the beer coolers, he spotted a door with a sign marking it as employee use only. Jonah kept his tread light while approaching, not knowing what could be waiting for him on the other side. A knife? A gun?

  Jonah yanked open the door. The young skinny white guy yelped loudly and tried to duck when Jonah reached inside to grasp his hoodie, but Jonah was faster. He dragged the guy out of the closet, then lifted him up until the tips of his toes were barely touching the ground.

  “What the fuck are you doing hiding in the broom closet?” he asked angrily.

  “I-I.” Skinny White Guy emitted a high-pitched squeak, then his head fell forward, breaking eye contact. A strong ammonia smell made Jonah crinkle his nose. He looked down and saw the puddle of piss pooling at SWG’s feet. The goddamned punk had pissed a river down his leg. Jonah took a quick step back to keep his shoes out of it but didn’t let go of the weasel.

  “Were you going to rob Mrs. Ling?” Jonah asked.

  “No,” SWG said quickly, shaking his head frantically. “I wasn’t.”

  “Get your hands up and keep them there.”

  The kid immediately obeyed. Jonah reached inside the hoodie pocket and pulled out a small caliber handgun.

  “What the fuck were you going to do with this?”

  “It’s not loaded,” the guy said.

  “And that makes it okay?” Jonah asked, giving the kid a good shake. “You were going to put that gun in Mrs. Ling’s face and demand money?”

  “I wasn’t going to hurt her,” he said, struggling in Jonah’s embrace.

  “Jonah, what’s going on?” Mrs. Ling asked from the front of the store.

  “Call nine-one-one. This little bastard was about to rob you.”

  “The gun isn’t loaded,” the guy repeated.

  “People can’t tell that when they stare down the barrel, you little fuck face.”

  The kid started to panic when he heard Mrs. Ling call 911, twisting and trying to break free. He stepped to the right and his foot landed in his puddle of piss. SWG’s feet slid out from under him, wrenching Jonah off balance. He released the guy’s hoodie to avoid slipping in the urine too. The prick went down hard, banging his head on the bottom of the shelf and knocking himself out.

  “Huh,” Jonah said, staring down at the prone man. He checked the gun, confirming it wasn’t loaded, then tossed it onto the ground so the police would see it when they arrived. He didn’t want them to shoot him first and ask questions later.

  Two patrolmen Jonah didn’t know responded to the call and quickly took over. Unfortunately for him, it meant he had to spend ninety minutes or longer answering questions. First with the patrol officers, and later, when the robbery detectives arrived on the scene. Some queries were legit, such as how he knew to look for trouble. Others were stupid, like when Officer Bauer asked why someone who worked for the GBI wasn’t carrying a gun.

  “I’m a criminal analyst, not a field agent,” Jonah explained, hoping his annoyance wasn’t showing.

  “Huh,” Bauer replied unenthusiastically.

  Jonah could’ve taken the time to explain what he did for the bureau and the many ways he assisted SPD, but he wasn’t in the mood. He only wanted to eat his Caramel Bugles on the front porch and watch a thunderstorm. Was it too much to ask?

  Apparently so, since he forgot to buy his guilty pleasure during his haste to leave. Jonah swore a blue streak but kept driving toward his house. Tomorrow morning would be soon enough to pick up his Bugles and might even ensure that his stash lasted later in the week than Wednesday.

  As soon as his house came into view, relief rushed in to ease the tension gripping his body. Jonah’s shoulders slumped, and he breathed easily for the first time since leaving home this morning. He’d purchased his two-story Folk Victorian home three years ago and fixed it up as he found time and money. The house had been structurally sound with a solid metal roof, but the exterior and interior had needed a shit ton of TLC. He’d hired a contractor to deal with the biggest projects, such as replacing the windows and siding on the house. Jonah had tackled the smaller tasks himself. He liked expending the physical energy and seeing the results of his labor. His favorite endeavor was sanding and painting the wraparound porch and trim. He’d chosen a bright white hue which nicely contrasted against the dove gray siding and the black metal roof. Jonah needed new outdoor furniture for his porch to finalize the exterior makeover, but his granny’s old rocking chairs would do for now. The interior, however, was another story. He’d upgraded the master suite and refinished the hardwood floors on both stories before he exhausted a good chunk of his savings. The kitchen was his next big project, but it would require a lot of capital, time, and sweat. He could make do with the raggedy cabinets and outdated tile a little longer. He’d at least updated the appliances, which was a huge expense out of the way.

  When he turned into his driveway, Jonah’s headlights illuminated the front porch like a spotlight, revealing Miss Marla, Savannah’s legendary drag queen and his next-door neighbor, sitting in a rocking chair. She’d chosen a long, silver, satin nightgown with matching robe for her visit. The color looked amazing against her flawless dark skin. Beside her, a tall highball glass sat on the table, indicating she hadn’t planned a short visit. Marla lifted her arm to shield her eyes, so Jonah cut his headlights.

  “Well, this is a surprise,” Jonah said when he got out of the car.

  “People say the same thing about a herpes diagnosis,” Marla quipped, her husky voice laced with her affection for him. Jonah liked it much better than the disdain she’d treated him to when he’d first moved in. Marla had pegged him as just another white guy who was hell-bent on gentrifying her neighborhood. He’d won her over after time, and she’d become a dear friend.

  Jonah smiled as he recalled the first time he’d seen a crack in the veneer of Marla’s contempt for him. He’d received mail addressed to Richard Bruce Barker once, and initially had thought it was a past owner until he’d noticed the address beneath the name. When Jonah took the envelope next door, Marla looked at the letter in her hands for several moments before meeting his gaze.

  “These are my rules, and I expect you to obey them without question.” She’d paused long enough to raise a perfectly arched brow. How could someone communicate so much with one little action? Marla had wanted to know if she should continue speaking or save her breath. Jonah had nodded for her to go on. “When you see me dressed like this,” she’d said, gesturing to her red dress with white polka dots, “I expect you to call me Miss Marla or Marla. On the rare occasion you see me dressed as a man and not wearing a fabulous wig, you may address me as Ricky. Never Richard, Rick, and especially not Dick, unless you have plans to suck mine.” Jonah had bit his bottom lip to keep from chuckling. Marla hadn’t finished laying down the l
aw though. “You will treat me with respect at all times. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jonah had said.

  “And just because these are my rules does not mean they apply to all genderqueer people. Ask someone if you’re unsure which pronouns to use. Don’t be a jackass.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Marla tilted her head and studied Jonah’s face. She must’ve liked whatever she saw there because she stood aside, gestured for him to enter her home, and said, “Join me for coffee.” She didn’t ask or invite; she commanded, and he obeyed. Not much had changed since that fateful day.

  In three years, Jonah had only seen Ricky twice. He was curious to know how old Marla was, but he’d never be stupid enough to ask. He figured a lady was entitled to her secrets.

  Marla’s visit made him curious. Not so much because of the time, but because she’d chosen his porch to wait for him rather than her own. Their homes were close enough that she would’ve heard Jonah pull in without having to watch out the window for him. There was something in her voice, a wisp of sadness that made him push aside his exhaustion and frustrations as he dropped into the rocking chair beside her.

  “Late night, isn’t it, darling?” Marla asked.

  It was approaching ten, which wasn’t late for most people’s standards, but it was hours later than Jonah usually arrived home from work. “Meetings and more meetings.”

  Marla shivered. “Sounds dreadful.”

  Soul-crushing was a better adjective. “How was your day?”

  “Very enlightening,” she replied. “I listened to the new true-crime podcast you are making with your friends. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I enjoyed it. The three of you have vastly different personalities, but you complement one another very well.” She sounded like an indulgent aunt or mother who acted as the sole audience member for a garage band’s private concert.

  Sinister in Savannah, a podcast he’d created with his friends Rocky and Felix, a private detective and an investigative reporter, was the subject of much scorn during his meetings. It had debuted the previous week to rave reviews and was already trending in the top ten of true-crime podcasts. He’d had the deputy director’s blessing to participate, but Trexler thought it was a horrible idea. Jonah suspected Trexler’s animosity stemmed from jealousy over the attention the show garnered, rather than genuine concern Jonah would leak GBI secrets during the segments. Trexler had doubled down on making Jonah look like a fool by trying to discredit the work he did with Stella, the supercomputer with artificial intelligence Jonah had built from scratch. Trexler belittled his efforts and dismissed every conclusion Stella came up with after analyzing files.