Insatiable Series Omnibus Edition (Books 1-3)

by Patrick Logan

  The girl used this prolonged surprise to her advantage, and quickly scrambled on top of the man’s chest. Then, staring into his wide eyes, she brought her right elbow down in a high arc. She heard the man’s nose crunch, and then felt the unmistakable warm sensation of blood on her forearm.

  “Corina!” someone shouted from off to her right.

  She ignored the cry, and raised her arm to deliver another crushing blow when a meaty hand grabbed her forearm from behind.

  “Corina!” The man’s breath reeked of stale coffee, a scent that strangely brought her around.

  Her entire body went limp, and she allowed herself to be pulled off. The man’s hands immediately went to his broken nose, his eyes watering.

  “What the fuck, Corina?” he said, his voice coming out nasally and high-pitched.

  Corina turned her large hazel eyes to the floor, immediately ashamed of what she had done. The man that she had brutally elbowed quickly scampered to his feet, grabbing the heel of her prosthetic leg and tossing it like a loose helicopter blade into the corner of the room.

  “Fucking bitch,” he muttered, staring at the blood that filled his palm.

  “Take a walk, Teddy. Go get cleaned up,” said the man who’d grabbed Corina’s arm.

  The man with the broken nose waved the old man away, but he said nothing further and turned his back to both of them.

  Corina, eyes still downcast, pulled away from the now loose grip on her forearm, turning her foot sideways to balance herself on one leg. Then she turned and looked at the man who had prevented her from delivering what would have probably been at least another half dozen blows.

  There was no humor in the man’s heavily lined face. His eyes were a rich blue, and they focused on her intently, trying to figure out if she had calmed down. Above his eyes was a thick thatch of eyebrows that were knitted tightly, the inner corners nearly touching in a Scorsese sort of way. The man—who Corina assumed was in his late sixties or early seventies, although she had never asked him directly—had short grey hair cropped close to his skull. Despite his age, the man’s grip had been tight, and so was the rest of him. Sure, like everyone his age his skin had lost some of its elasticity, and in a few key places it sagged a bit—beneath his chin, on the underside of his wrists, around his knees—but he would never be mistaken as one of the out-of-shape bingo players from down the hall. No, years of jiu jitsu and boxing training had turned his physique into a rock—a rock with a light layer of moss covering the surface.

  “I’m sorry,” Corina whispered, looking away from her mentor’s face. For nearly five years she had been coming here, turning his dojo into her own personal shrink to work out her problems.

  Her attention was drawn to the bloody smear on the underside of her forearm. Obviously, it would take more than physical activities, irrespective of how violent, to exorcise her demons.

  The man’s voice matched his physique; hard and gravelly.

  “Sorry’s not going to cut it this time, Corina,” Mr. Gillespie said.

  Her eyes snapped up.

  Not gonna cut it?

  This wasn’t the first time that someone she had been rolling with had ended up bloody—all the other times Mr. Gillespie had just told her to shower up.

  But none of those partners had been Teddy Manfred, the son of the man that owned the building that Mr. Gillespie leased to run the dojo.

  Corina shook her head slowly, the sweaty strips of short brown hair clinging uncomfortably to her cheeks and scalp.

  “I need this,” she pleaded. “Please, Mr—”

  He cut her off.

  “Corina, you broke Teddy’s nose.” His voice softened. ”You know what he could to this place.”

  Corina felt tears welling in her eyes. This was all she had—he couldn’t take this away from her.

  “Please,” she begged.

  Something in the old man’s face broke, and his hard expression became flaccid. He brought a hand to the heavy lines around his mouth and rubbed them.

  “Look, Corina, just take some time off and I’ll talk to Teddy. But you need some real help, and I—this place—can’t give it to you anymore.”

  “How much time is ‘some’?” she asked, ignoring the last comment.

  Mr. Gillespie’s blue eyes focused on hers.

  “A month,” he said. “Two would be better, but a month will do. Will give me some time to smooth things over with Teddy and his dad. You know Teddy—he’s a fucking prima donna, thinks he’s UFC champion or something.” He paused, then repeated, “A month.”

  Corina nodded. She would go mad without the gym for a month, but knew that she was getting off easy—besides, she knew that no matter how much Mr. Gillespie cared for her, he was not a man to go back on a decision once it had been made.

  The man returned her nod and walked to the corner of the room and collected her prosthetic leg. He handed it to her, and Corina locked it into place. She opened her mouth to say something, but then closed it again. There was no more to be said.

  Instead, she headed to the change room in silence.

  A month. An entire month without the gym.

  “Fuck.”

  3.

  It wasn’t the man’s dark skin, or the fact that he was six-foot-four and two hundred and sixty pounds of mostly muscle in a place that was populated by fat white men with burgeoning bellies, long grey beards, and tattoos marking most of their exposed pale flesh that made him stand out. No, it was something as simple as his shirt; not the shirt itself, as this was nothing more than a beige button-down with short sleeves. Rather, it was what was on his shirt: the patch on his triceps just before the bottom of the sleeve, the one that read ‘Askergan County PD’. And, more specifically, it was the gold star on his chest that read: SHERIFF. Sticking out like a sore thumb in this place was an understatement.

  But there was one man in the bar that didn’t lean back and take notice, and that was the man with the red bushy beard and the crooked teeth that had emerged from the bathroom. Following only a few seconds after a pale woman with a blonde ponytail and jean skirt that was barely long enough to cover her ass cheeks, the man walked across the room, aware of but not acknowledging the sheriff who sat alone at the bar. He took the seat right next to the muscular police officer.

  “Whiskey,” the sheriff demanded, and the barkeep, a young man with jet black hair that was shaved on the sides but with a healthy crop on top, just stared at him.

  The sheriff cleared his throat.

  “Whiskey,” he asked again.

  The bartender sneered but obliged, turning his back to the sheriff and reaching for the lowest bottle on the glass shelf. “And get one for my friend here, too.”

  A moment later, the bartender turned back around with two rock glasses, one in each hand, the bottoms coated with a golden brown liquid. It was barely enough whiskey to cover the bottom, let alone a full ounce.

  This didn’t seem to bother the sheriff, and he downed it in one go. He twisted the glass back and forth in his meaty black hand.

  “Another,” he demanded, and the skinny bartender reluctantly took the glass from him.

  “Do you like trivia?” the sheriff asked, turning to the man beside him.

  The man with the red beard didn’t respond.

  “Well I do,” the sheriff continued. “I have a few favorites, too. Wanna hear them?”

  Again, the man to his left said nothing.

  The sheriff continued, unfazed.

  “Who is the only man in NHL history to score two overtime goals in one game?” the sheriff asked.

  The man with the red beard cleared his throat.

  “Chris Campoli,” he said. Then he brought his own thimble of drink to his mouth and swallowed.

  The sheriff smiled. This time, when the bartender turned with another glass of whiskey, the sheriff took a small sip and put the glass down on the bar instead of drinking it all at once. The barkeep turned back to the shelf and began drying some pint glasses, doing
a terrible job of pretending he wasn’t eavesdropping.

  “How about this?” the sheriff continued, this time keeping his eyes straight ahead, focusing on the mirror on the wall behind the bartender “Who has the most three-on-five short-handed goals?”

  The man with the red beard smirked; he couldn’t help it. This was too easy.

  “Mike Richards.”

  Again, the sheriff laughed.

  “Good, good. But now—”

  The sheriff hesitated. A flicker of movement in the mirror caught his eye. Two men were approaching them from behind, two large men wearing jeans and leather vests—straight out of the eighties. Following close behind was the blonde with the ponytail and red lipstick that had come out of the bathroom right before the man with the red beard.

  The sheriff swiveled in his chair to face the men that approached.

  The larger of the two men, an oaf who was nearly as big as the sheriff himself, stepped in front of him and pointed his pudgy finger aggressively.

  “You’re not welcome here.”

  The sheriff, unfazed, smiled, revealing a row of perfectly white teeth.

  “You must have me mistaken for someone else,” he said. Then he puffed his considerable chest and brought his own finger to the star on his vest, tapping it several times. “The name is Sheriff; Sheriff Paul White.”

  The biker sneered.

  “This ain’t Askergan. You’re out of your jurisdiction.”

  Again, the other biker snorted.

  “DICK-tion.”

  Sheriff White rolled his eyes.

  The biker took offense to this and took another aggressive step forward, closing the distance between himself and the sheriff to under three feet. When he extended his finger again, the sheriff’s face suddenly changed—his smile disappeared, hiding those brilliant white teeth behind his thick lips, and his hazel eyes went cold.

  The movements were quick for such a big man; not lightning quick, but much faster than either of the bikers could have anticipated.

  The sheriff’s hand shot out and he grabbed the man’s outstretched finger, yanking it hard to one side, snapping the bone just beyond the first knuckle. The biker cried out, and as he instinctively turned to look at his hand, the sheriff reared back and drove his massive fist directly into the man’s face.

  The biker never saw the blow coming and stumbled backward, taking the girl down with him as he collapsed on top of a round table. The table broke under his immense weight, smashing several pint glasses and spraying the stunned occupants with frothing liquid and glass fragments.

  “What the fuck?!” the other biker shouted, his eyes darting from his fallen friend and the girl and then back at the sheriff. “You fuck!” He took a step forward.

  During the altercation, the man with the bushy red beard had slipped off the stool and now, as the sheriff readied himself, his right leg going forward, his fists raised up in front of his face, the man casually took one step to his right. The biker took another step forward, and that was when the man with the red beard delivered a vicious kick squarely to the side of the biker’s knee. The blow had been timed perfectly, and the biker’s forward progress was immediately halted, a cry escaping his lips.

  Both of his hands immediately went his knee as he careened sideways, hopping on his other foot, trying desperately not to fall.

  He lost the battle.

  Another table was broken and more beer was spilled.

  “Yeah, I think we better go,” the man with the red beard said. The shock was beginning to wear off, and the men that had been sitting around the first smashed table now helped the biker with the broken finger to his feet.

  The sheriff nodded.

  “Like, right now!” the man said.

  The other half dozen men in the bar were standing now, inspecting their beer-soaked clothes. The man with the torn knee was still wailing on the ground, but they stepped around him, not taking heed.

  “Go!” the man with the red beard suddenly shouted, and the sheriff, on cue, quickly turned and ran to the door.

  The other man followed.

  The sheriff scrambled to get the car door to his cruiser unlocked as the door to the bar banged open behind them.

  The man with the red beard turned back to the bar, just as the sheriff opened his door and jumped into the driver seat.

  “You motherfucker!”

  It was the man that Sheriff White had punched, his head tilted to one side, his uninjured hand probing his already swelling jaw. He turned his head to one side and spat a glob of blood onto the tarmac. The man with the red beard thought he saw a flash of white in the red splotch—a tooth, perhaps.

  “Get in!” the sheriff yelled, and the man quickly obliged.

  The sheriff peeled out of the parking lot, his squealing tires leaving the bikers in a cloud of dust and a trail of burnt rubber.

  Thankfully, they were only about a dozen miles outside of Askergan, and despite the bikers’ obvious fury, the sheriff knew that they wouldn’t dare follow. And if they did, well, things would be very different on his turf.

  After a minute or so, the sheriff’s adrenaline drained and his heartrate returned to normal. He turned to his passenger.

  “Classy joint you got there.”

  The man smirked, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

  “Yeah, you fit right in,” he replied.

  The sheriff grunted. It had been almost five years since he had seen his friend, and despite his appearance—the horrible red beard, the greasy, shoulder-length brown hair—and his choice of drinking establishment, he could tell that not much had changed.

  “Let’s get you cleaned up, Coggins. Askergan needs you; Askergan needs the good boys again.”

  Andrew Coggins’ smile faded, and he kept his eyes trained on the road ahead.

  The good boys—Askergan needs the good boys.

  Coggins, still silent, eyes focused ahead, reached up and flicked on the cherries.

  4.

  The intoxicating smell of fresh lawn clippings filled the warm summer air. The clusters of potted dianthuses that marked the steps of the pale blue porch were in full bloom, and a smattering of bumblebees hovered above them, gorging themselves on the newly exposed nectar.

  “Oh, shoo,” Mrs. Mullheney grumbled, swinging her hand-carved wooden cane over the tops of the flowers. “Get out of here, you little buggers.”

  The bumblebees scattered, but the minute the woman with the thickly lined face turned and continued down the porch and then made her way to the barn at the back of her property, they returned in earnest.

  It had been her husband’s idea to turn the rarely used wooden shed into a small gift shop, and Mrs. Mullheney had initially scoffed at the idea when it had first been proposed. It seemed only fitting that she went ahead with the conversion a year after he passed. Status quo, anyone from the town that knew of them might say, as it was no secret that the hard woman had spent the better part of a century impressing her iron will on the man, turning what few good ideas he had had into her own. But, as usual, Mrs. Mullheney could give two shits about what the nosey townsfolk had to say.

  What was unexpected, however, was the fact that she actually enjoyed running the store.

  Mrs. Mullheney pulled an old set of keys out of the pocket of her ankle-length white dress and opened the gleaming chrome padlock.

  She wasn’t really sure why she liked the store that much. After all, she never really sold more than a few hundred dollars’ worth of merchandise a month. A practical woman, she supposed that running the small store, which was open but for a few hours every day—eleven to two, no exceptions—gave her some purpose, aside from finishing the crossword puzzle in the otherwise unread daily newspaper. The crossword puzzle was still more important, of course, but running the small gift shop added more purpose to her otherwise meandering existence.

  Mrs. Mullheney pulled the door wide and inhaled deeply. It smelled better in the shop that morning; better than usual.

&n
bsp; Probably because it didn’t rain last night.

  Anytime it rained with enough vigor to soak the roof, some of the cascading water inevitably leaked through the old shingles and wet the oak wood ceiling. This, in turn, tinged the air in the small shed turned shoppe with a hint of mildew that drove Mrs. Mullheney nuts. And, in addition to her disgust at the smell, she found that on days following a night rain she would have to walk around the side of the shed and open the door and window a half hour early to make sure that the rows of teddy bears and handmade throws didn’t start to take on the scent of mildew. And all of this meant that she had less time to finish her crossword.

  Mrs. Mullheney pulled her glasses from her nose and let them rest on her narrow chest, held there by a long, beaded chain. Then she turned her nose to the ceiling, closed her eyes, and drew a deep breath.

  Wood. Wood and earth and cotton.

  Mrs. Mullheney smiled and put her glasses back on before setting about getting things prepared before her first visitors might—or might not, it mattered little to her—arrive. So long as the store was open at eleven.

  Mrs. Mullheney bent to retrieve the ‘OPEN’ sign from the floor beside the open door, and then rose with all of the equally predictable snaps and pops from her spine and knees. She reached back outside the shed and hung the sign on the nail below the window, only she kept it turned so that it read ‘CLOSED’. At eleven, she would turn the sign over.

  Next, she picked up a clipboard from the small table inside the door and flipped it to the first empty page. Using the pen clipped to the cover, she wrote today’s date on the upper right-hand corner and then turned her attention to the first row of shelves and began to take inventory.

  Twelve teddies all in a row.

  Mrs. Mullheney systematically went from shelf to shelf, counting off each of the two dozen or so types of trinkets and teddies first in her head, then out loud, and then writing them in the ledger.

  Fourteen hand-knit throws.

  The store never sold more than a few items a day on average, and even that number was heavily biased by the weekend days and just three or four specific weeks in the summer. But it didn’t matter; the shoppe was open every single day, rain or shine, snow or sun, from eleven to two.