Night Skyy

by Rich Bullock

  Night Skyy

  Rich Bullock

  Copyright © 2019 by Rich Bullock

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Writings of V.M. Narrano used by permission.

  Book cover design by Robert Henslin

  Published by RichWords Press, USA

  v 11/6/19

  Contents

  Writings of V.M. Narrano

  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

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Night Thoughts

  Note to Readers

  The Idea Behind Night Skyy

  Books by Rich Bullock

  Acknowledgments

  Book Club Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  Writings of V.M. Narrano

  Our deepest desire is to love and be loved in a way that risks everything.

  We don’t choose our destiny any more than we design it. Our role is to embrace it when it slaps us in the face.

  Life is full of choices. Make one.

  If it doesn’t work out, make a better one.

  Chapter 1

  “Hi, all. Skyy D here, and you’re listening to Night Thoughts on Black Owl Radio. I hope you’re having a good evening. Thanks for dropping in for my ramblings and to hear some great music from independent artists all over the world.”

  Skyy Delaney perused the comments and questions already rolling in on her show’s comments page. Would Creeper show up tonight? Especially considering the topic. She and Big Jerry at Black Owl blocked him every way imaginable, but he always got the first comment through—sometimes more. He’d only missed one show in ten weeks.

  “Two days until Valentine’s Day, and love is in the air. Or at least you’d think so from all the red candy boxes in drug stores. What’s up with that, anyway? Do any women pack away that much chocolate? I’d have zits the size of quarters and weigh 400 pounds. But that’s a topic I’ll save for another night.”

  Someone asked how to find the music she featured, and she posted the links in a public comment visible to all who were online. Others requested specific songs or bands. Those she copied to a separate note window. But now that she’d mentioned Valentine’s Day, most comments turned to relationships.

  “BillyTJ wants to know my favorite chocolate. That would be the kind I don’t have to exercise off at the gym. Send me a box of those.”

  Her broadcast “studio” for her Internet radio show consisted of a laptop, microphone, and the dining table in her rented Tucson guest house. To reduce sound reflection, she’d spread two cheap mover’s blankets on the tile floor, and draped two more across the table and over the remaining dining chair. Best she could do on her budget.

  She pulled her new, Blue Yeti microphone closer. It made her voice sound full and sultry—at least, that’s what reviewers said.

  “As we think about love and relationships, I want to read you a quote I heard a couple of years ago that changed my life. Here it is:

  ‘There comes a time in a man’s life when he asks himself three questions:

  Do I want to stay in this job?

  Do I want to live in this place?

  Do I want to stay with this woman?’”

  The quote had played on the car radio while Skyy drove to the grocery store with her boyfriend. She fought a frown before continuing.

  “The experts undoubtedly thought those questions applied to a fifty-year-old balding guy with a paunch who decides to sell his sensible Honda sedan and buy a sports car. A convertible sports car. I thought so too.

  “Loser Boyfriend in the passenger seat next to me wasn’t even thirty years old, yet he asked himself those questions and decided the answer to each was no. Within three days, he quit his job, cleared his stuff out of our apartment, and left for Florida to quote, ‘live on a boat.’ He took our rescue puppy, but I wasn’t invited.”

  That happened a week before Valentine’s Day two years ago. She held the mute button while exhaling a cleansing breath. Let it go. Yet it still stung.

  “But listen to this, ladies: this is the important part, and it’s just for you. After a few days of sobbing in bed, I got up, slapped myself twice—the red marks lasted till the next day—and took an ice-cold shower while blasting Lana Del Rey on my Bluetooth speaker.

  “The thing about a cold shower is,” Skyy leaned into her mic, “you aren’t thinking about your torn heart when you’re freezing your butt off and yelling like a crazy woman.”

  She paused, envisioning her listeners turning up the volume for her next words. “Get this, girls: it’s your butt and your crazy, not his. No one else makes you whole. It’s up to you.”

  Skyy clicked on a music file, triggering Big Jerry’s slow fade-in option. “Okay, you guys out there, you can join back in. Hope you learned something. Now let’s listen to a new set of songs from Slide3 out of the Village in New York. Their album is Gremlin Candy.”

  The stagnant air in her tiny room was beyond stifling, but she couldn’t use the noisy AC unit in the middle of a live show. She resorted to draping a wet towel around her neck and mopping her brow with a washcloth. Tucson in winter. She shook her head.

  More Valentine’s questions—and a few best wishes for her—filled the scrolling window.

  Then a chill crawled up her spine. A comment from Creeper.

  I’d love to see you in the shower. We could—

  Skyy deleted the comment before her eyes could read the rest of the pervert’s slime. She’d made that mistake before. Deleting a comment was much easier than erasing lingering mental images. Her fingers fumbled on the keys as she composed a message to Big Jerry that Creeper got through their blocks—again.

  But dwelling on the breach now wasn’t possible. The rest of the show flew by in an avalanche of questions, comments, and exciting plans for “The Best Valentine’s Ev-ver!!!” Tons of exclamation marks; heart emojis too. Skyy read the best of them aloud, relaxing again in the positive flow. The few that sent emojis of a bloody dagger were innocent and made her laugh. At least some people agreed with her dissing of Cupid’s big holiday.

  Then one rolled up that again stopped her smile.

  Maybe someone will buy me a Valentine’s gift someday. I don’t care what it is. - K

  This wasn’t the first post from K, but it was the first that more than hinted K was female—and probably young if she’d never had a Valentine’s gift. On the surface, the words could be interpreted as hopeful, but Skyy read doubt and discouragement in every one of K’s messages, this one included.

  While t
he Black Owl Radio program site allowed for direct responses to posts, Skyy rarely did so. And unless K replied, there was no way to know if K received it. Still, she had to try.

  K. I wish I could help. - Skyy D

  That was the frustration of being virtual—she could only encourage, not touch. K could be across town or thousands of miles away. For once, she’d like to really help someone.

  She mopped her forehead as the final song ended and the show clock counted down toward the end of the hour.

  “That was ‘Blue Crazy’ by Wint. I love her stuff. And if you liked the music featured tonight, please stream or buy it. Support these great artists.

  “Unfortunately, that’s all the time we have tonight. Don’t forget to follow me on Black Owl Radio. If you create a login, you can leave comments, listen to the show live on your mobile app, and keep up with all the Night Thoughts latest. I’ll talk to you next Tuesday.

  “Remember: be safe—and don’t stay up too late unless you’re listening to Night Thoughts.”

  Canon Truax removed his earbuds and closed the Black Owl Radio phone app before the next show’s intro intruded on the experience that was Skyy D.

  While he appreciated her efforts to promote talented artists who weren’t part of the commercial music business, she was why he tuned in. Her voice was a burgundy silk scarf drifting across the night sky.

  “What are you grinning at, bro?” Canon’s brother, Martin, dropped onto the second chaise on the cabin’s front porch. “Yikes. This vinyl is like ice.” He squirmed around, warming up the cushion with friction. It was far colder than last night when they hauled the old lounges outside.

  “Clear sky makes for cold air,” Canon said, staring at the colorful splash of brilliant pinpricks painted against the blackness of space above Storm Lake, California.

  “You’ve been listening to that Internet chick again, haven’t you?” Mart said. “Next you’ll be writing poems to the moon and talking about mauve fabrics. For a tough cop, you’re getting sappy.”

  Canon laughed. “You don’t even know what color mauve is, bro. And you have to admit, she has the sexiest voice you ever heard.”

  “Not much you can do about it. She could be anywhere in the world, so it’s not as if you’ll bump into her at the grocery store here or home.”

  “Nah, she’s closer than that. I’ve got a feeling.”

  “Yeah? Well, I’ve got a feeling we’d better get some sleep. The fish bite at dawn, and that’s in”—he pressed the stem of his watch—“less than six hours. If you aren’t up, I’m going by myself.” He levered up off the chaise.

  “I’ll be right in,” Canon said to Mart’s retreating back, then turned his gaze to the lake. On still nights it reflected the brighter stars like an obsidian dance floor, but tonight a light breeze rippled the surface enough to wash away the pinpoints. Even yard lights on the occupied cabins across the lake cast no reflections. Every night was different, and each beautiful in its own way.

  Since their parents died, he and Mart tried to get together at Storm Lake two or three times a year. It had been tough lately, what with Mart being hired full time by the Salinas Fire Department, and Canon’s temporary assignment to the Sheriff’s drug task force in San Diego County.

  Mart viewed the cabin as a vacation house, somewhere to bring friends and do some fishing. But for Canon, the cabin was solace in a crazy world, a place more home than anywhere else.

  “Where are you, Skyy D?” Although some of the other Black Owl Radio hosts posted pictures and some personal information on their profile pages, Skyy D never did. There was info about upcoming show topics, links referenced during a program, and the occasional poll, but nothing of her current surroundings or recent travels. She never mentioned local venues or geographical landmarks.

  Canon almost laughed, because her online presence was more secretive than his. Perhaps it was basic caution, a hedge against potential stalkers. Of course, it was possible she was former law enforcement who knew, like he did, it was safer not to reveal personal information. However, he couldn’t help wondering if there was an incident somewhere in her past. Was she running? Hiding?

  The sole clue to her identity was her voice. Mart would give him grief if he knew how much time Canon spent analyzing each nuance of pronunciation. But no matter how many times he listened, no accent or pattern of regionalisms stood out.

  Tonight, though, he detected a brush of sadness in her voice when she signed off. It was slight, but there, as if something happened right before the end of the show.

  He clicked the Black Owl page and composed a message.

  Heard your show tonight. Ouch. Kind of harsh, don’t you think? I mean, not all men are thoughtless clods. Not all men leave. Many are good guys, like my brother. Others are great—like me. :-)

  Canon thought again of the tone of her sign-off.

  As I said last time, I’m a cop. So if you ever need anything, or if you’d like to talk or meet, you know where to reach me. Have a good night, Skyy D. Catch you next week. - Canon

  He tapped the post button, feeling a strange combination of teenage foolishness and hope. Suggesting a meeting or talking was far bolder than he’d been in previous messages, and he hoped it didn’t sound too stalkerish. He’d given her his Facebook profile, locked down as it was, as an offering that he was for real, but she had yet to reply to any of his messages. Still, there was no gain if he never tried.

  Other than Loser Boyfriend, she never mentioned anyone special, not even family or friends. From her familiarity with the indie music scene and her style of speech and word choice, he thought her under thirty years old. Beyond that—tall, short, fat, thin, ugly, gorgeous—he had no idea.

  The stiff vinyl creaked as he peeled himself off the chair and stood. Dawn would be even colder than it was now, yet he welcomed the recurring routine: the familiar thunk and squeak of their tennis shoes on the aluminum boat bottom, the whispered comments that carried clear across to the far shore in the predawn silence, the splashes of old wooden oars disturbing the calm water.

  They would glide through foot-high mist pulled off the surface as the sun hinted through tall pines. And when they reached one of their favorite spots, the creak of wicker creels handed down from their father’s father signaled the coming challenge. All the smells and sounds—all the senses, really—from hundreds of trips beginning when they were little boys, were etched into his and Mart’s souls. More than hooking a trout or bass, being on the water with family was important to who he was.

  The screen door’s hinges complained when he pulled it open. Another reminder of his childhood—and that his parents left this world far too soon. There would be no more fishing trips with his father.

  Far out in the darkness, a bird called, perhaps seeking companionship. Canon paused, listening. None of its kind answered.

  He pushed open the inside door, easing the screen door shut behind.

  Hey, Skyy D. How about going fishing with me at dawn sometime? - Canon

  He sent the new message and headed to bed, smiling at the snarky response he hoped would come.

  Chapter 2

  Too early Wednesday morning, Skyy swung her legs out of bed, no longer able to tolerate the sun beating through the thin curtains. She wouldn’t be surprised if they burst into flame, because she was about to.

  Opening the window wasn’t an option. The 95-degree heat already had the window AC in the living area burrat-tat-tating like a truck’s Jake brakes on a steep downhill grade. The poor unit would probably have a literal meltdown when summer heat arrived.

  Of all the places she’d lived around the country, Tucson was… Well, she didn’t want to go there. Or stay, for that matter. This was February. It should be cold, snow on the cactus or something. And according to grocery store checkout clerks, that’s the way it normally was. This year was unseasonably warm, they said. Plain old hot was more accurate.

  Arizona had seemed like a good idea when she lived in Louisiana smacking bu
gs every two seconds and breathing air the consistency of salty Jell-O. She hadn’t lasted long there, especially after her disastrous trip to find her brother.

  Hungry but too tired to think about fixing food, she flopped down at the dining table and opened her laptop to the Night Thoughts site. Over 154,000 subscribers, up nearly a thousand since last night’s show. Two years ago she’d been at fifty-two. Just fifty-two—not thousand.

  “Wow. That’s amazing.”

  Talking to herself didn’t bother her as much as it had right after Loser Boyfriend left for Florida, although one-sided conversations were a nagging reminder she had no one with whom to share life, not even a pet or dead plant.

  But virtual friends were better than no friends. She pulled her laptop closer. There were dozens of comments on past shows and several private direct messages. Not unusual.

  She scrolled to the bottom of the DMs and began with the oldest. Two were from legitimate radio stations. Now that she was gaining a following, they were offering her a spot in their lineups. Flattering, but she had no interest. They’d lure you in, then begin dictating content and strapping on demands. Soon she’d be trapped, another whatever’s-popular copycat. She scrolled up the list of messages until one coaxed her lips into a smile.