Life First: (Dystopian series, book 1)

by RJ Crayton

  Life First

  By RJ Crayton

  Copyright 2013 R.J. Crayton

  All rights reserved

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to Fred, Eric and Ella, who provided love, support and, often, distraction.

  Praise for Life First

  “This novel was a poignant, riveting, thought provoking read that had me entranced from page one until the very end of the book. In simple speak, I literally could not put it down.”

  - 5 Stars from Griffin’s Honey Blog

  "I was completely intrigued by this book from the very first page. There were fairly few characters in-keeping with the story, but they were all extremely well thought out. I really think RJ Crayton should be expecting calls for film rights because this played out in my mind as I read it like a really great film.... It gripped you like King Kong and would not let go until you had finished the book."

  - BestChickLit.com

  “The plot was really well worked with lots of twists and surprises that keep you hooked. There was depth, drama, tension and action in this book that I didn’t expect. The storytelling was done beautifully, and you can’t help but care what happens to everyone involved.”

  - Chuckles Book Cave

  Table of Contents

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  Chapter 1: Deception

  Chapter 2: Waiting

  Chapter 3: LMS

  Chapter 4: Go

  Chapter 5: Trouble

  Chapter 6: Luke’s Law

  Chapter 7: A New Plan

  Chapter 8: Survivor Mentality

  Chapter 9: Dr. Grant

  Chapter 10: Driving

  Chapter 11: A Promise Kept

  Chapter 12: Failure

  Chapter 13: Last Words

  Chapter 14: Held

  Chapter 15: Time for a Chat

  Chapter 16: Joke’s on You

  Chapter 17: Dr. Grant’s Lab

  Chapter 18: Good News

  Chapter 19: Yes

  Chapter 20: Javelina Boy

  Chapter 21: Perspective

  Chapter 22: Preparation

  Chapter 23: Getting Ready

  Chapter 24: Try Me

  Chapter 25: Susan’s Story

  Chapter 26: Pregnancy Psychosis

  Chapter 27: Night at Last

  Chapter 28: Emmie

  Chapter 29: A Fool for a Client

  Chapter 30: Closing Arguments

  Chapter 31: Don’t Worry? Ha!

  Chapter 32: Waiting

  Chapter 33: Betrayed

  Chapter 34: Sentence

  Chapter 35: Murphy’s Law

  Chapter 36: Escape Again

  Chapter 37: Home

  Chapter 38: I Do

  Chapter 39: Rooftop Escape

  Chapter 40: A Favor Repaid

  Chapter 41: This is Our Stop

  Chapter 42: The Ground

  Second Life Preview

  Prologue - Kelsey

  1 - Susan

  2 - Susan

  Book Club Questions

  Praise for Life First

  Note to Reader

  Also by RJ Crayton

  About the Author

  Book Version: V161025LF

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  Chapter 1: Deception

  As I walk down the hallway with my father, I stare at the Persian rug beneath my feet, wanting more than anything to be like it. Yes, a strange desire. But, well placed, as the rug is a fake. It is good at pretending to be something it is not. Tonight, my fate depends on me pretending.

  The rug is better than me. Most people would think it is a hand-made Persian rug. It is pristinely woven with a medallion at center, surrounded by intricate flowers, and red and blue swirls spaced perfectly apart in a repeating pattern — a little too perfect. That is the telltale sign the rug is a fake. Machines are flawless. Real loom maidens who labor for hours by hand make mistakes. There’s a certain irony to it: the rug shows it’s imperfect by being too perfect.

  I keep my head down, face hidden, in case I have a telltale sign. I stare at the rug, feel it squish softly beneath my feet and do not speak to my father. That seems easier than facing him.

  No one needs to walk a 23-year-old to her bedroom, so I know he wants to talk. But I’m afraid if he gets a good look at me, he’ll realize what I’m planning. Even if I were as good as the rug, he’s the equivalent of a Persian rug expert. He’s hard to fool. So I stare at the swirls and watch one sock-clad foot step in front of the other.

  The little white tassels appear. Rug is done. It ends at my room. I lift my gaze to the polished mahogany door. Centered a little lower than eye level is a nameplate made of baked dough decorated in pink and yellow flowers. KELSEY, it reads. It has held up well, considering I made it in fourth grade.

  I focus on that nameplate, but from the corner of my eye I see my father turn toward me. Though I feel his stare, I don’t return his gaze. Not yet. I can’t.

  “Kelsey,” he says, just above a whisper, but authoritatively. I turn and tilt my head up to meet his eyes. My father is a half-foot taller than me at 6 feet even. His face always appears accessible — a hazard of his job, I suppose. He is trying to look accessible now, in hopes that I will confide in him. He is using his most effective trait — his penetrating, soulful blue-gray eyes — to his advantage. Those eyes can either make you open up and pour out your most cherished thoughts or cower with fear.

  Tonight, he eyes me sympathetically. “Honey, I know you’re worried about tomorrow,” he says in the “I really care” tone perfected in his early career. I nod. It’s true. I am worried, but not for the reasons he thinks. “You’ll be fine,” he assures me. “This is a very safe procedure.”

  I try not to move the muscles in my face — no twitching or grimaces — nothing to hint I’m being dishonest. I just nod again. Yes, the procedure is very safe. Incredibly safe, unless you’re in the five percent who suffer major complications.

  His lips are pressed together tightly and his eyes stoic. Does he know I’m hiding the truth? I want a moment more to analyze him, to try to decipher all the body language he’s worked so hard to keep controlled so he presents only the information he wants out. But at that moment, he pulls me into a hug. I don’t expect it. My father is many things: strong, brave, courageous, stubborn, idealistic. Touchy-feely, not so much. Despite the shock of the embrace, I manage to lift my arms and wrap them around him. I try not to wrinkle his suit jacket too much. A wrinkled suit jacket won’t look good if a reporter snaps his picture.

  “You’re doing the right thing,” he whispers in my ear.

  “I know,” I whisper back. This is true. I know I am doing the right thing. Only, what I’m going to do isn’t what he wants me to do.

  He releases me, takes a step back and smiles — a genuine one. As a politician, my father smiles a lot. Most smiles are for show, because no one wants to see a grim man kissing babies or shaking hands. The public smile means nothing. Pulling his lips into that friendly curl is as easy as breathing to my father. Seeing the public smile is about as endearing as seeing him scratch his forehead. The genuine smile, the one my mother showed me the hallmarks of, is the one I love. If he blesses you with it, it means you truly have his heart.

  I pray my actions tonight won’t break that heart. Part of me wants to tell him I’m sorry, so sorry, for what I’m about to do. To make
amends before I leave. The other part of me, the part that knows I can’t let him find out, not prematurely, not when he can still stop me, just wants him to leave. I smile back, but this time it’s my public smile.

  I wonder if he can tell. If so, he doesn’t let on. He looks down at the thin black watch wrapped around his wrist. “It’s eight o’clock. That means nothing else to eat tonight, though you can have a few sips of water if you’re thirsty.”

  I nod, relaxing the muscles in my face to look calm. I lean back against the hallway wall, trying to look like someone ready to do what Dad wants.

  Dad wears a neutral expression, but frustration is etched in his blue-gray eyes. “I can see you’re still worried, sweetheart,” he says. “Do you want me to stay here tonight?”

  Panic. I feel like my heart stops, and wonder if my face is giving me away. Quickly, I look down at the rug’s swirls, hoping to hide any fear visible in my expression. This is bad. He has to leave. Has to go to his meeting, then stay at the condo he owns in the city. I force a smile, meet his eyes again, do my best to look reassuring and shake my head. “No, you should go, Daddy,” I say encouragingly, moving off the wall and lightly patting his jacket sleeve. “You’re already dressed and ready to go, and I’d like some peace tonight. I want to think, get a good night’s sleep. I’d feel bad if I kept you from work for no reason.”

  I’m rambling. I need to wrap it up. But how? I glance at the rug for inspiration. It makes faking look so easy. My eyes find my father again. “Plus, Haleema’s here,” I finish, letting him draw his own conclusions.

  Haleema is technically my father’s assistant, but nowadays she mainly looks after the house, because we are rarely here. Since my mother died, Haleema has been a godsend for me. She’s provided maternal advice and a nurturing presence. I appreciate her more than I can say, because my father is gone so often. My father, I believe, recognizes his reliance on Haleema. I think he’s always felt that if there were something he didn’t see because he wasn’t a mother, she would catch it and help me.

  I watch my father closely, trying to look OK, trying not to show panic. I lift my hand to pull a strand of hair and twirl it around my finger, but stop myself just in time. Instead, I smoothly maneuver to scratch my ear, then return the hand to my side. Playing with my hair will ensure he stays.

  My father is unnaturally still as he watches me. He’s looking for a sign of what to do. Debating whether to take me at my word. Debating if I want some woman-to-woman bonding time with Haleema, to really be alone, or if he should delve deeper. Debating whether he needs to be fatherly in some way he isn’t right now. I’ve seen this internal debate play out across his furrowed brow too often lately. He takes in a breath, and I can tell he has decided to try again to be fatherly.

  “I can stay if you want,” he says, measuring my reaction. “It’s not really work, Kelsey. It’s just a strategy meeting and cocktails with a couple of donors.”

  “Big donors,” I retort, raising an eyebrow. “Go ahead, I’ll be fine. No need to worry about me, OK?” I proffer another smile, trying to make it look genuine.

  He doesn’t move. Instead, he fixes his eyes on me, as if by looking hard enough he might see some secret hidden in my expression, some clue as to what he should do. I wonder if all fathers feel this level of uncertainty dealing with their children, or only widowers.

  After a moment more of thought, he nods, then kisses my forehead. “You know, you will be fine. The doctors are very good. Not to mention,” he adds with a chuckle, “You’re the daughter of the lead gubernatorial candidate. Your dad also happens to be a sitting state senator. They’ll take extra good care of you.”

  I smile again, step toward my room, grab the knob, turn it and push the door open. Dad still watches, refusing to leave me just yet. I turn back to him, breathe out and say affectionately and truthfully, “I love you, Dad.” I know these are the last words I’ll say to him in person.

  He replies in kind, clearly assuming this is just like any other night. Then he turns around and walks back down the hallway. I step inside, close the door. Safe. For now.

  Chapter 2: Waiting

  I lean against my door, thankful my father is gone. The first hurdle is complete. The next will be getting out of here unseen.

  If all goes well, I’ll be leaving in two hours. If things go perfectly, I’ll be safe, truly safe and out of harm’s way, by this time tomorrow. If things don’t go well … I don’t want to think about that.

  I relinquish my spot at the door and take another step in. Even though I’ve been here for more than a week, I am suddenly struck by how much this room no longer represents me. The best way to describe my room is girly. The bed has been here since I was 12: an oak, four-poster with a pink canopy and matching ruffled covers. Photos of friends dot the wall. Teddy bears, dolls and other stuffed animals adorn the dresser and desk. The pale pink walls still bear the flowers I painted on them when I was pubescent. Definitely girly.

  This is a room for the naïve, the innocent, those who don’t know what I do.

  Even though I can’t leave yet — I need an important signal first — I don’t want to be idle. I decide to get ready.

  I go to my dresser, cattycorner to the door, and take out a black turtleneck. I considered wearing it to dinner, but thought it would make me look grim and unhappy. I pull the yellow shirt I’m wearing over my head and toss it in the dirty clothes bin. Then, I slide the turtleneck on and walk a few steps to the full-length mirror affixed to the wall.

  My wavy brown hair is hanging naturally, fanning out across my shoulders. That won’t do. I pull it back it into a bun. Now, the blonde wig will be easier to put on. In the mirror, giving myself the once over, I can’t help concentrating on my eyes. They’re brown. Nothing out of the ordinary, flashy or particularly memorable, but the brown suits me, I think. I have a pair of blue contact lenses in my bag — another part of my disguise. I tried them on the other day, and my eyes looked mutant. I hope this was just because I’m not used to the look, and to passersby, I’ll appear normal. With luck, I won’t need the wig or blue mutant eyes.

  I turn my body for a profile view. The black pants and top make the perfect stealth outfit. I run my fingers across my midsection, then lift my shirt so I can see the area where they plan to make the incision tomorrow. I shake my head. I won’t let them. They aren’t going to cut me open and take what’s mine.

  I lower my shirt, turn away from the mirror, away from this line of thought, then look at my watch: 8:12. Nothing to do until 10:15 but wait, watch the hands tick by, then get up and flee the only life I’ve ever really known.

  I head over to my bed. It’s a stupid move, really, but I’m floundering a little and don’t know what to do. So I sit on the bed, positioned against the wall. The bed is comfy and inviting, not something I want to leave. Clearly this is not a good place to sit. However, I find myself drawn to it. A corkboard pinned with pictures hangs on the wall above the bed. I home in on a photo of my father and me at a rally a couple of years ago. The big “Life First” banner hangs prominently above us. It’s such hypocrisy, I think, absentmindedly brushing my fingers across my midsection. If this is Life First, I want no part of it.

  Beneath that picture is one of me and Susan when we were 13 and both at Camp Picklewick — a ridiculously silly name for a camp, if you ask me. Anyway, the photo was taken before the incident at the lake. Susan’s arms are wrapped around me, and she’s showing off her wide-mouthed, goofy grin. Her eyes are fearless. I wish I could be bold like her. It feels like she’s been my best friend forever, but the summer that picture was taken is the one that forever bonded us together.

  I blow out a long breath, close my eyes and lean back on the stack of pillows at the head of my bed. Stupider still, I’m sure. I shouldn’t get comfortable when I have to leave soon.

  I sit up, trying to yank myself out of this plush, comforting bed. I need to be ready to leave. I go over my plan in my head: escape the house with our dog, go
through the woods, meet up with Luke and Dr. Grant at the church.

  Really simple. I hope.

  I wish Luke were here already. I’d feel better. Luke has always had that effect on me. Even the first time I met him — in a pub near campus my sophomore year of college — he made me feel glad I’d met him. And that’s saying something, as he was drunk and unpleasant that night. I next saw him a year later — walking across the quad talking conspiratorially with Dr. Grant. I was immediately glad to see him. So glad, I stopped in my tracks and watched them. He noticed and came over. Despite my embarrassment at being caught staring, I was happy that the tall guy with the mop of brown hair was striding toward me.

  “I remember you,” he said.

  “Really?” I hadn’t been able to hide my surprise. From the moment I saw him, I knew it was him. But the idea of him remembering me, a year later, when we hadn’t spoken or seen each other again, made me feel happier than it should have

  “Moe’s Pub. A year ago,” he offered, in case I hadn’t remembered. “I was a total jerk, and you walked out.”

  He had it perfectly clear. “I’m surprised you remember.”

  “Of course I do,” he said, winking. “You’re the one that got away.”

  I could feel myself blushing, but had no way to stop it. He was definitely charming, when he wasn’t ogling. “So, are you still a total jerk?”

  “Not a total jerk,” he said, emphasizing the word total. “Though, I still have my moments.”

  He’d said it to be funny. It wasn’t true. Luke is refreshingly “moment” free. That’s why I wish he were here. He helps me stay calm. Luke is the one person in this world whom I’d be completely lost without. And tonight Luke is going to help me escape. I pray we succeed. For, if we don’t, tomorrow my government will strap me to a gurney, slice me open, take my kidney and give it to someone else.