by Rebel Farris
Rebel Farris is a romantic suspense author. She's also the mom of three lunatics plus two perfect pups (Spike and Snakefinder) currently residing in Austin, TX. A native Texan and former military wife, she spent three years living in Seoul, South Korea (where part of her heart will always belong) and every corner of her home state before settling down. One day she hopes to live out the dreams of her nomadic soul, by traveling the world. All while pouring out the myriad of stories that fill her not-so-normal mind. She'll just have to wait until her brats graduate and leave the house first.
When she's not busy writing her newest project, she can probably be found curling up with a good book, hiding behind a lens of one of her many cameras, or going on adventures with her kids. Champion of the anti-hero, Rebel loves to write suspenseful and unpredictable stories while making people fall in love with the bad guy and the broken souls.
Standalones
Snapshot
Falling Small Duet
False Start
Pivot Line
Seven Hummingbirds Series
(Coming June 2018-2019)
Penalty Kill
Whip
Transition
Substitution
Blocker
Turn Stop
Target Zone
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Rebel’s Mad House
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Scene Inspiration Songs
Addicted to Love by Florence + The Machine
Be Mean by DNCE
Believer by Imagine Dragons
Hurt by Johnny Cash
I Don’t Mine by Defeater
In Repair by Our Lady Peace
King Of The World by First Aid Kit
Let’s Dance by M. Ward
Litost by X Ambassadors
On The Vista feat. Mos Def by Blakroc
Say Hello, Wave Goodbye by David Gray
Sign Of The Times by Harry Styles
Two Weeks by FKA twigs
Waiting Game by Banks
Whore by In This Moment
Blues
Awful Dreams by Lightnin’ Hopkins
Baby Please Don’t Leave Me by Buddy Guy
I Can’t Quit You Baby by Otis Rush
I’ll Take Care of You by Etta James
Love the Lonely Out of You by The Brothers Osborne
Never Gonna Give You Up by The Black Keys
Trust in Me by Etta James
Classic Rock
Going to California by Led Zepplin
House of the Rising Sun by The Animals
Laugh, I Nearly Died by The Rolling Stones
Punk
Beat My Guest by Adam & The Ants
Blank Generation by Richard Hell
Conform by Siege
Final Solution by Pere Ubu
Gloria: In Excelsis Deo by Patti Smith
I Cut Like A Buffalo by The Dead Weather
Institutionalized by Suicidal Tendencies
Orgasm Addict by Buzzcocks
Pink Turns To Blue by Hüsker Du
Promises by Fugazi
Snake Charmer by The Warmers
**You can find the whole playlist on Spotify by clicking here.**
I hear crying from the next room over, and I try to ignore it. I’m not sure how I ended up in a place like this. I never imagined that this was what my life would look like.
Actually, I do know. Not only did it change my life permanently, but it’s not the type of event that escapes one’s memory.
You never forget the first time you see a dead body. If you’re unfortunate enough to see one outside of a funeral, it’s not a pleasant experience. There are things about the dead they never cover in the movies. Smells, sounds, movements, the clearing of the bowels… all the disgusting stuff.
The crying gets louder, accompanied by the sharp rattle of wooden furniture. I know he’ll take care of it eventually, so I block it from my mind.
Where was I? Oh, yeah.
My first experience with death was on both the best and worst day of my life. When I think about it—even with years of distance—it’s all shades of gray. A twisted mass of confused emotions and a racing heart.
Because it was the day I met him.
I remember being scared. At first, I thought he was the devil come to claim me. Then I thought he was my savior. He was both and neither. But one thing was certain—he changed my life irrevocably.
The crying stops, and my shoulders release tension I didn’t know I was carrying. But now—now I can tell you my story.
Camera
Today was going to be a good day. I could feel it in the air as I walked out on my porch in the early-morning sun. The smell of morning dew and fresh-cut grass floated on the air.
Most people think that being alone is a horrible thing. I’d never really understood that. There was peace in solitude—a serenity in the quiet. In my experience, other people only served to bring noise, distraction, drama… all things I could live without.
I released a contented sigh as I propped my boots on the railing of the porch. Leaning back in my lawn chair, book in one hand, coffee in the other, no sounds but the birds chirping from the nearby tree and the rustle of leaves on the wind, I could almost forget that I had neighbors.
Almost.
It wasn’t just that they were ten feet from my front door, within spittin’ distance. I could tell the moment they woke up because their day always started with a crash, and then came the shouting. Not even a paragraph in before they started. Living in a trailer park is not ideal for privacy. The walls are thin. Though the way Billy and Joanne Watkins went at it, they could be inside an airtight vault with twelve-inch-thick concrete walls and the world would still hear them.
I huffed, stuffing my bookmark into the book and retreating indoors.
Noise, distraction, drama… yep, definitely not missing out.
Looking around at my bare-bones furnishings, I settled on the twin-size mattress and box springs that I called a couch as my new cozy spot, nestling into the twenty or so pillows. Not that I’d much choice since that and the wooden TV tray that sat next to it were the only furniture I owned, aside from my bed and a matching TV tray back in my bedroom. It wasn’t much, but it was mine.
The bookmark dropped out onto my chest as I opened the book. Hallelujah. I was finally going to get to enjoy my first day off in the last ten days. Since Tracey and Ronnie quit last month, the diner had been short-staffed, leaving me with a grand total of three days off this month. I was going to enjoy this one, Joanne and Billy be damned.
I’d finally gotten my hands on Dean Koontz’s latest book, Midnight, and The Queen of the Damned by Anne Rice. And I was going to read these books before the month’s end, come hell or high water.
It took me longer to get the newest Vampire Chronicles book because Jerry at the Book Shop doesn’t believe that female authors will sell if they aren’t writing lusty romance novels. Sexist pig. But that’s the price you pay for living in the country. You were subject to the whims of the local inhabitants. Unless you had the time and inclination to drive into the city—which I did on my last day off.
I’d just turned the last page of chapter one of the Anne Rice book when Billy and Joanne moved their incessant fighting outside. There was no escaping it. Now,
it was coming through my walls loud and clear. Groaning loudly, I slammed the book shut, forgetting the bookmark. I frowned at it as I set it with the book on top of the TV tray. It was looking like reading would not be on the agenda today. But I didn’t know what else to do.
I studied the bare walls as I ignored the screams and accusations happening outside. There was only one picture on my walls. One that had been given to me on my last birthday by the girls at work. It was an Ansel Adams print, probably the most valuable possession in my home. It formerly hung in the window of the frame shop next to the diner. Every day, I stopped outside and stared at it. I’d always wanted to be a photographer. But it was just an out-of-reach dream, an expensive hobby outside my means to partake in.
Window-shopping was a specialty of mine. The other place I liked to stand outside and wistfully sigh was Big John’s Pawn Shop. There was a brand-new Canon AE-1 35 mm camera with a ton of accessories sitting there, calling my name. But I’d just finished saving up my emergency fund. It would be a good six months before I could afford it. If it was still there when I was ready.
It might not be.
That was the moment I decided to throw caution to the wind. Or maybe it’s just my emergency fund burning a hole in my checkbook? Spontaneity wasn’t in my wheelhouse, but my mind was made up. I would get the camera, go to the drugstore for film, and find a pretty piece of countryside to take pictures. Just me and nature.
I jumped up and tossed my purse on my shoulder and was out the door, narrowly dodging water flying in every direction. Joanne was standing in her front yard, threatening Billy with her water hose—again. I shook my head, not even understanding the point of being in a relationship where you obviously hated the other person. This happened every day like clockwork. And my own parents were a testament to the fact that love wasn’t what they said it was in books and movies.
I dove into the front seat of my 1984 Pontiac Fiero, just as water sprayed across the windows. Somehow I missed getting soaked, but a few drops still got in. Closing my eyes, I breathed deep to stop the impulse to say something. Bitch probably did it on purpose. She stuck her nose up in the air and turned her fire back on Billy, who looked unmoved by her antics.
Ten minutes later, I pulled into a parking space in front of Big John’s Pawn Shop. There it was, in all its black-and-silver glory. I walked in with confidence and looked Big John in the eyes as I told him I needed my camera. He smirked at me and went to get it from the window display. The rest of the time I was there, I avoided eye contact, carefully dodging his attempts at small talk. We went to high school together. I knew he was an ass back then, and I was sure the same held true. Taking over his family business probably didn’t instill any more virtue in him.
Thirty minutes later I was driving down the road with my new camera in my lap, four rolls of film in my passenger seat, and hope in my heart. Maybe this was it. Maybe today I would take the picture that would change my life.
Death
I drove for more than an hour down a farm-to-market road. There was nothing but trees, random cacti, and limestone boulders as far as the eye could see. Which didn’t mean much, since I was in Hill Country and the rolling hills impeded distant views. After not seeing another house for the last twenty minutes, I decided to pull over. I loaded the camera with film and shoved all the extra lenses and filters into my purse, pulling out my Walkman. Eddie Thorpe—one of my regular customers—had made me a mixtape that I was thoroughly enjoying. He’d the best taste in music and the time to find songs outside of the incessant country music that permeated every radio station in the area.
I clipped it to my pocket and hit Play. “Pictures of Matchstick Men” by Camper van Beethoven rang in my ears as I pulled my long mahogany hair up into a ponytail. The manic violin hit my gut, springing goose bumps across my flesh. I bobbed my head to the steady beat and smiled.
My purse was a giant holdover from the hippie boom. I bought it from a garage sale a few years back. Made of brown leather, it hung slightly longer than normal with fringe on the bottom. Even after I pulled it over my head, so the strap crossed my torso, it still hung longer than my cutoff jean shorts. I could feel the books poking at my hip, so I reached in and adjusted them. I briefly considered taking them out. I had water, food, camera accessories, the typical purse stuff, and those books. It was quite heavy. I pulled Midnight out and looked longingly at the cover before depositing it on my front seat. No sense in carrying two of them. Even if I found a nice cozy quiet spot to read, I wouldn’t finish one.
I looked down at the toe of my boots. The brown leather of the hand-me-down cowboy boots was already scuffed and faded, so I wasn’t worried about messing them up on the hike. It just seemed like I should thank them for protecting my feet before I set out to abuse them more.
Shutting my car door, I turned to cross the ditch to the barbed wire fence. It was old and in need of repair, and it sagged enough that I easily swung myself through it. I squinted at the tree line and remembered my sunglasses on top of my head, pulling them down over my eyes. Not seeing a clear path, I walked forward, my camera thumping against my chest with each step.
I made it three steps beyond the trees before my heart started racing. Shit. I forgot about the compass. I dug around in my purse, pulling out the new compass I bought at the drugstore. I turned back to face the car. My heart calmed as I saw the glints of blue-painted metal through the trees. I held the compass up, waiting for the needle to settle. West-northwest. I was heading east-southeast. I turned back and marched off in that direction, keeping one eye on the ground for snakes and the other on the compass, occasionally looking around and snapping pictures of the landscape and wildlife.
This was rattlesnake country—you couldn’t be too careful.
I walked through nearly two rounds of my mixtape. I knew the second side was coming to an end as “Blister in the Sun” by the Violent Femmes started playing. My feet couldn’t help the hop they did in response to the infectious beats, and soon I was all-out dancing. I stumbled to a stop as I realized I was nearing a cliff.
The view was stunning. A rocky creek bed lay below, and from my perch, I saw the hills rolling out before me. The sun was directly above me, but as I checked my compass, I knew. The cliff faced due east. The sunrise here would be amazing. I made a mental note to leave something to mark the fence where my car was parked so I could find my way back. I will get that sunrise shot.
I took a picture anyway, and the film gave on the rewind, releasing the wheel so it spun freely. I’d filled my first roll. I changed the film out for a fresh one.
My stomach growled loudly at that moment, in protest of my continuous journey. I looked around and saw a shady spot next to a tree, not more than a few feet from the cliff’s edge. I untied the flannel shirt around my hips and laid it out on the ground, dropping my purse next to it. Enjoying the view and the silence, I ate my peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich and dug into the bag of Bugles. I flicked a few curious ants off my flannel when they wandered near, but I’d never been more content.
When I finished eating, I cracked open the book. I don’t know how long I sat there, but when the sun dipped toward the horizon and I was no longer sitting in the shade of the tree, I packed up my stuff.
I looked longingly over the cliff for a few moments. I wanted to find a way down there when I came back. The steady stream of water had glittered in the sunlight when I first saw it. There would be some good pictures down there too. After the sunrise. If I didn’t have to go back to work, I would be there the next day and then the next.
Reluctantly, I turned and made my way back to the car. I didn’t bring a flashlight, so it would be a race against the setting sun to get back before night fell. I pulled my earphones on and hit Play. Devo’s “Whip It” came on and I let loose, dance-walking my way back to the car, only pausing long enough to snap a couple of cool shots in the fading sunlight.
When “Heroes” by David Bowie came on, I was lost in
the rhythm of my own feet. Confident that I was heading the same direction I came from, I didn’t bother looking at the compass. The setting sun was guiding enough. I sang out loud, no one but the critters and trees to hear me. And that was when I tripped over a cactus. I could feel the spines sticking into the flesh of my shins. I caught myself with my hands, but not soon enough. My chin bounced on the rocky ground. The pain shooting through my head was immediate.
My earphones had fallen off with the jarring impact, David Bowie’s voice sounding far-off and tinny. But the sound that really captured my attention was the loud buzzing of flies. The second thing to hit me was the smell.
Once when I was a kid, my foster mom was driving past a sewage plant. We had the windows down. She ordered me to roll mine up quickly, but it was too late. The wretched smell had invaded our car. Up until that moment, that smell had stood out in my memory as the worst smell on the planet.
This smell had that one beat, hands down.
It was like shit and piss and something else that was metallic, mixed with a sort of sickly sweet. I breathed out quickly and looked up. In front of me was blue fabric—a shirtsleeve, stained with rusty-brown splotches. Dread swamped my gut. I shoved up to my feet, forgetting the pain of the cactus spines. I gasped at the sight before me and immediately regretted that. The horrible, putrid smell invaded my nose. I swallowed hard and held my breath through several heaves of my stomach. Then I breathed in through my mouth, trying not to taste the smell on the air.
The body of a man lay there, twisted like a discarded rag doll, eyes just as vacant. Flies swarmed around his body. I was surprised that his face wasn’t bloated. I imagined that a dead body smelling like this would’ve shown more signs of decomposition. Yet, his eyes were a clear bottle green, hair a dusky brown with gray patches over his temple. The cause of death: a bullet to his forehead.
But that man had been tortured. His tormentor—and I say tormentor because this went beyond a simple murder, execution, or even self-defense—had cut and flayed the body, and the wounds inflicted looked much older than the one between his eyes. Some had festered and leaked a green, oozing pus, all in varying stages of infection.