DIRTY READS

by Scott Hildreth

  Make it a shocker.

  Race. Color. Creed. Religion. In the eyes of the almighty, we’re equal and we should remain so, but we don’t. As a nation, we’ve been taught to judge. The world, in fact, has been taught to judge.

  We tell ourselves we don’t, but we do.

  A man at a red light sits quietly with his wife and children, listening to his favorite music. A sound in the distance makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He fills with fear, for he has heard the sound before, and he knows what it brings.

  “Don’t look,” he warns the family.

  A group of men on motorcycles pull alongside the Buick. The man, petrified, stares straight ahead and prays to his maker for the traffic light to turn green before something happens.

  Because something, he is certain, will happen.

  The light turns, and he speeds away.

  Is he right, or is he wrong?

  At a bar the motorcyclists stop. Once inside, they notice a woman. A woman who is alone. One-by-one, they take their turn, raping her. They rape her of her innocence, of her trust, and of her ability to sleep at night. They rape her of her life.

  Yet, somehow, she survives.

  She stumbles through her days and nights that follow, not knowing how – or even if – she’ll ever survive.

  The rapists are eventually caught, taken to court, and tried for the horrific crime they committed. After a lengthy trial, they are convicted and await sentencing. On judgment day, they receive six months in the county jail – in protective custody.

  Even jailhouse justice is impossible. They’re protected from harm.

  The girl, once again, is raped.

  By the judicial system.

  Downtrodden and beaten, she stumbles to the bar, hoping to dull the pain. Halfway through her first pitcher of beer, she hears a familiar rumble. Through the window, she confirms her suspicions.

  A motorcycle club.

  In fear for her life, she attempts to grab her things and go. Before she is able, however, they are upon her. Slowly, and without expression, one of the men approaches her. She cowers in her seat. He reaches for her.

  She flinches.

  And he picks a piece of lint from her coat.

  “We heard about your case,” he says. “Don’t worry. Justice will prevail.”

  She swallows hard, and attempts to acknowledge his presence, but the words do not come.

  He physically looks no different than the men who haunt her dreams, but somehow she feels that he is.

  With a glimmer of hope, her eyes meet his. Memorizing and blue, they provide her with comfort.

  Embarrassed for her initial fear of the club’s intentions, her eyes fall to the floor. When she looks up, the men are gone.

  She hears the rumble. Through the window, she watches as the taillights fade off into the darkness of the night, and her heart fills with warmth.

  Is she right, or is she wrong?

  Six months later, on the eve of their release, the rapists leave their protective cells. One by one, they walk away.

  And one by one they meet their fate.

  When the woman gets the news, she feels justice is served.

  Right, I ask you? Or wrong?

  For the first time since that horrific night, she falls into a deep uninterrupted sleep.

  And she dreams.

  She dreams of equality.

  Of love.

  And of a world that does not, will not, and cannot hate.

  The familiar rumble wakes her from her sleep. Through the window she sees the man, sitting on his motorcycle.

  Waiting.

  And, without hesitation, she climbs on the back of the motorcycle, and she rides away.

  Forever.

  Right, or wrong?

  Ask her the next time she crosses your path.

  She is any survivor.

  Signed, a survivor.

  SAMPLE CHAPTERS

  DIRTY MONEY

  (To be released early February, 2017)

  PROLOGUE

  I’d seen countless movies and even read a few books with scenes of heroines being tortured until they eventually gave up the desired information to their captor, but nothing could have prepared me for the real thing. Held captive in a small concrete room with my arms and legs secured to a steel chair with duct tape, the only resistance I could muster was mental or verbal.

  As far as I was concerned, the weirdo pacing the floor was going to have to kill me. My fear was that he had reached a point that he was prepared to do just that. Nevertheless, I had no intention of providing him one word of useful information.

  I turned my head toward the sound of his footsteps and opened my tired eyes. Dressed in a dingy wife beater, cut-off sweat shorts, and lace-up boots, he resembled a boxer in training – but I knew better. He was one of the upper echelon of the underbelly of the city, and he was currently $2,000,000 poorer than he wanted to be.

  He loomed over me with a blood-stained piece of leather dangling from his clenched fist. Over the last fifteen minutes or so, the three of us had become quite intimate. “I need that fucking money,” he seethed. “All of it. I’m going to keep beating the shit out of you with this until you answer me or you’re dead.”

  And there was my answer. If he was going to slap me to death with his little piece of leather, it was going to be a really, really long night. I closed my eyes and said a quick prayer that Carter would arrive before the sour-smelling prick beat the life out of me.

  I inhaled a slow, deep breath and prepared for the inevitable.

  “Where is he?” he demanded.

  I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth and attempted to generate enough saliva to respond. It wasn’t as easy as one might think. Reluctantly, I made eye contact. “I told you. Over and over. I have no idea what you’re…”

  His hand came down hard against my cheek. A bright flash was followed by a burning sensation on the side of my face. I dragged the tip of my tongue between my teeth and my swollen cheek.

  The coppery taste of blood caused my stomach to convulse.

  He raised the strap and studied it. The skin on each side of the bridge of his nose was translucent and darkened, making his eye sockets appear to be sunken well below the surface. Combined with the foul smell of his clothing, the greasy strands of shoulder-length graying hair, and his unshaven face, my guess was that he hadn’t slept in a week or more.

  “You know why it feels like you’re getting hit with a piece of steel?”

  It felt like he was hitting me with a ten-pound rock, but I didn’t bother correcting him.

  He traced his index finger along the outer edge of the kidney-shaped strap. “Because it’s filled with lead. Two pieces of leather with a piece of lead sandwiched between them. It’s made for knocking the shit out of people. Sooner or later, you’ll talk.”

  You don’t know me very well.

  My brother was the Special Agent in Charge of the Kansas City, Kansas office of the Drug Enforcement Administration, and the man who was holding me prisoner was a drug dealer. As strange as it seemed to admit, my brother had no idea of the mess I was in, and it was crucial that things remain that way.

  I was living in a whirlwind of lies, deception, robberies, and theft. Although my current situation was far from pleasant, I reserved hope it would end and end soon.

  He wiped blood from the surface of the leather with the tip of his thumb. “Where is he?”

  “If you’d tell me who he is, maybe I can help you,” I lied.

  A grumbling sound escaped his lungs. It was almost a growl. I clenched my jaw in anticipation of what was sure to come.

  With the strap still clenched tight in his fist, he pressed the heels of his palms against his temples and murmured something. There were two modes of speaking for him; mumbling and screaming. Oddly, I preferred the latter. When he muttered I had no idea what he was thinking. When he shouted, at least his thoughts were made clear.

  He turned to face me.
His eyes narrowed to slits. “The fucking ghost,” he said through his teeth. “El Fantasma. The man with my god damned money.”

  My eyes fell to the floor.

  That’s what they were calling him.

  El Fantasma.

  In and out without a trace. Some claimed he wasn’t human. Others believed what had been happening to the city’s drug dealers and thieves was simply karma.

  I knew better.

  El Fantasma was real, he was walking sex, and he was the man I had fallen in love with. On the day we met I shot him in the chest with a .45 caliber semi-automatic pistol at point blank range. It wasn’t a story either of us could ever admit to, but it was the truth.

  Since that day, the truth was something that was getting harder to believe and increasingly impossible to tell. Lies, on the other hand, were commonplace and rolled from the tip of my tongue with ease.

  I wouldn’t change things if I could. The lies allowed us to continue living a life that was fast-paced, always entertaining, and rewarding in many ways. What we were doing may have been illegal in the eyes of the law, but very few who clearly understood our means and methods saw it as immoral. In short, we did what we did for the betterment of mankind, and to cleanse the community of shit-hats like the one standing before me.

  Fully prepared to tell yet another lie, I glanced up and met his gaze. As I did, I noticed a smoky black eye staring back at me from between the door and the doorframe positioned immediately behind stinky man.

  My mouth twisted into a shitty little smirk.

  A confused look washed over him. Maybe he thought I was having a moment of clarity, or that the truth was going to spill from my lips.

  “Oh, the Ghost?” I asked. “El Fantasma?”

  The door opened a few more inches.

  Stinky man grinned enough to expose his yellow teeth. “Yeah.” He slapped the leather strap against his open palm. “Where is he?”

  I tossed my head toward the only door in the room. “He’s right behind you.”

  And that was the first time I’d told the truth all night.

  ONE

  Lex

  I flipped the lever up and down repeatedly and stared into the toilet bowl.

  Nothing.

  I turned the faucet’s handles back and forth. A groaning noise followed, the water pipes shook, and then...

  Nothing.

  It was apparent I’d forgotten to have the water turned on before I moved in, and I desperately needed to pee. The closest gas station was ten minutes away if there was no traffic, but I had serious doubts I would last ten minutes. As I considered peeing in the sink, the low drone from the exhaust of his Corvette gave me hope that relief was in sight.

  I pulled the blinds to the side and peered out the window. Although it was dark outside, the security lights mounted over his garage door provided enough illumination for me to see him. His short curly locks of brown hair and not-so-well trimmed beard gave him a rugged appearance, and his worn jeans, boots, and untucked V-neck tee shirt topped off the ensemble.

  In the half a day I had spent unpacking and situating my belongings, I had seen him come and go no less than four times. He was quite handsome, and rather tall. I had many weaknesses, but tall men were my biggest of them all.

  Tall men, shoes, and double cappuccinos.

  In that order.

  With a full bladder and an overactive imagination, I walked out of my house, through the yard, and onto his front porch.

  I inhaled a shallow breath of courage and knocked on the door. Immediately, it swung open. I met his gaze and grinned, but I wasn’t prepared for his gorgeous hazel eyes. I fought to swallow. He smiled in return. My eyes fell to his boots, and slowly rose the length of his six-foot-plus frame. His jeans were much tighter than I expected them to be and his tee shirt clung to his rather wide chest.

  I went wobbly-legged and quickly decided living next door to him was going to be the best thing that ever happened to me.

  “Hi. I just moved in next door, and they haven’t turned on my water yet. I really need to use the bathroom, and I was wondering if you’d be kind enough to let me use yours,” I blurted in one breathless sentence.

  “Sure.” He stepped to the side. “Come on in.”

  His half of the duplex looked identical to mine, only reversed. A couch and a chair sat side by side in the living room, and from what I could see, there was no other furniture in the entire house. I glanced around the sparsely furnished home and wondered if he was moving out, moving in, or had spent all of his money on the car and had very little left over for furnishings.

  I pointed toward what I assumed was the bathroom door. “Over there?”

  He nodded. “Yep.”

  “I’m Lex,” I said over my shoulder.

  “Brad,” he responded.

  Brad. I wondered if it was Bradley or just Brad. I found Bradley to be more attractive, and felt it suited him better than the shortened version.

  I pushed the door closed behind me and locked it. The bathroom didn’t appear to be much different than the rest of his home. A single towel on the rack beside the shower was all that adorned the walls.

  I carefully pulled the shower curtain to the side.

  Not a single bottle of shampoo, conditioner, or soap.

  I opened the drawers of the vanity.

  Empty.

  After I peed, I rinsed my hands, dried them on the lonely towel, and sent my brother a quick text message.

  Met my neighbor. He’s hot but weird. See you when you get here.

  Freshly divorced, but finally out of my terribly abusive relationship, I moved to Kansas City to be closer to my brother. Although I rarely agreed with him, he was the only family I had. He adhered to rules, regulations, and society’s expectations of him, and I, on the other hand, didn’t. We were polar opposites, him taking on our mother’s saint-like qualities, and me being more like my alcoholic ex-con father.

  I opened the bathroom door and gazed into the living room. My hazel-eyed friend was sitting on the couch with his legs crossed. I shot him a grin of appreciation. “Thanks. Maybe after I get moved in, we can…”

  In mid-sentence, the front door crashed open, sending splinters flying throughout the room. A man dressed in black SWAT-type gear rushed in, pointed a gun at Brad, and began screaming. His glare was stern, his stance expressed his confidence, and his extended arm held the pistol rock-steady.

  “Where’s the fucking money, Bradley?” he bellowed.

  Brad’s eyes widened as the man pushed the door closed with his foot and then took a few steps toward the couch. He resembled a cop, but he hadn’t identified himself as such. At least not yet.

  “I uhhm. I don’t. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Brad muttered.

  “You sure as fuck do.” He took another step toward Brad. “I need that money. Now where is it?”

  Brad’s right hand twitched ever-so-slightly.

  The man reacted immediately, pointing the gun directly at Brad’s chest. “Keep your fucking hands where I can see them.”

  A gasp shot from my lungs. So far, I had gone unnoticed, but now feared for my life. His eyes shot to me. They were as black as death. “Who the fuck are you?”

  My heart rose into my dry throat. I swallowed hard and somehow managed to give a one-word response. “Neighbor.”

  “Don’t fucking move, neighbor,” he demanded.

  I had no intention of doing anything but following his orders. I raised my shaking hands to shoulder height and waited for further instructions.

  He shifted his eyes to Brad. “Last time I’m going to ask. Where’s the fucking money?”

  “You uhhm. You must have the…you’ve got the wrong house,” Brad muttered.

  “You’ve got fifteen seconds to decide how you want this to end.” The man glanced at his watch. “You give me the money, and I’ll leave. No one gets hurt. By the time I count to one, if you haven’t told me where it is, I’ll put a bullet in your chest. Th
e decision’s yours.”

  Brad swallowed heavily and stared back at the man.

  Dear God. I really don’t want to be in the middle of whatever…

  “Twelve,” the man barked.

  I felt myself teeter to one side. I lowered my hands slightly and wondered if my shaking legs would be able to hold me up any longer.

  “Ten.”

  Please, tell him something…

  “Eight.”

  “Seven.”

  “Six.”

  I wasn’t great at evaluating people, but it didn’t take a genius to see that he was serious. His barking out the seconds into the otherwise silent room was making me feel sick.

  “I swear, you’ve got the wrong house,” Brad pleaded.

  “Four.”

  “Three.”

  I fixed my eyes on Brad.

  Jesus. Tell him a lie.

  “Two.”

  Brad shoved his right hand between the couch cushions. A deafening explosion followed and the air became thick with the acrid smell of burnt gunpowder.

  I closed my eyes and clenched them tight. My bottom lip began to quiver. I didn’t want to know, but I opened my eyes and glanced at Brad anyway.

  It was different than in the movies. The blood wasn’t red. His once white tee shirt was covered in a wine-colored stain. His eyes were open, but lifeless and distant. Everything went to slow-motion. The man walked to the edge of the couch, pushed his hand down into the couch cushion, and pulled out a pistol.

  What the fuck have I got myself into?

  He glanced at his watch. “Neighbor, huh?”

  My ringing ears made his voice seem dull and muffled. I was scared to death, and although I knew I needed to, I realized there was no way I could formulate a response. I nodded and hoped it was enough.

  “Just move in?”

  He seemed extremely calm for just having killed someone. I struggled to keep from vomiting and nodded again.

  The smell of blood and gunpowder hung heavily in the air. My tongue swelled. My mouth went dry. Bile rose in my throat. I tried repeatedly to swallow but couldn’t.

  He extended his hand. A gold badge with US in the center and Drug Enforcement Administration over the top filled his palm. It looked just like the pictures I’d seen of my brother’s badge.