He stood up and looked around for Samantha. When he spotted his twin sister setting food out on a table, he realized her large sunglasses meant something other than protection from the glare. It meant protecting her son-of-bitch husband.
Moving in, Tyler caught her by the arm. “We need to talk.”
“I’m getting the food out,” she protested. Her long black hair shifted around her shoulders. While they shared their light olive skin and dark hair—both inherited from their Hispanic mother—Anna had also taken her mom’s petite build. Tyler’s six foot frame came directly from his father. He hoped to God it was the only trait he’d inherited from the SOB.
“Food can wait.” He pulled off his multi-colored wig, and his red ball nose, and walked her inside the house, guided her past the kitchen and didn’t stop until they stood in the enclosed laundry room that smelled like clean clothes.
“What the hell is up with you?” She snapped her hands on her hips. The action reminded him of their mom that if this wasn’t so damn serious, he might have been distracted. While his mother had been dead for four years, he still missed her.
“Take your sunglasses off, Sis.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
She frowned. Carefully, he removed the shades. He held his breath, afraid of how bad it was. Thankfully, it wasn’t as bad as he feared. As an ex-cop, he’d seen women so battered that he’d puked. But it was his childhood memories that were the worst. Sam hadn’t just inherited their mother’s build and coloring; she’d inherited their mother’s knack for choosing losers. Staring into his twin’s face, there was no mistaking the light bruise under her left eye. Then he remembered she’d missed the family’s mandatory Sunday breakfast last week. The bruise had had time to fade, which meant it must have been nasty when it was fresh.
He touched his sister’s cheek under the evidence. “Leo do this?”
“No,” she snapped, proving her daughter wrong. Sam did lie. She just wasn’t good at it.
But holy hell, why did she put up with this crap? The answer rolled over him like an overloaded concrete truck. Because their no-good father had treated their mom the same way. Tyler had studied it in college.
Statistically, the odds of her choosing men just like dear ol’ Dad were great. The odds of him becoming his dad were greater. And considering the rage he felt now for Leo, the odds might be right.
He turned to leave and Sam caught his arm. “Don’t do it, Tyler. I beg you.”
He gently cupped her face in his palm. “If you knew someone was hurting me, would you stand by and let it happen?”
“No but…” Tears filled her eyes. “He was drunk.”
“Isn’t that what they said about dear ol’ Dad?”
“Please,” she muttered.
“I love you, Sam. I know you’re going to be pissed at me, but he needs to know he can’t do this.”
He didn’t stay around long enough to hear her pleas. That would have broken his heart, and Tyler wasn’t sure his heart could take any more breaking. So, he plopped his wig and rubber nose back on, and shuffled his clown ass out to teach his brother-in-law a lesson about hitting girls.
~
Hesitating in the kitchen for a minute to collect himself, Tyler stepped outside. He went to the cooler, figuring Leo wouldn’t be too far from the alcohol. He pulled out two beers, uncapped one and drank half of it in one swig, then looked around for Leo. He spotted him chatting with Tyler’s oldest brother’s wife. And damn if he didn’t see the man eye his sister-in-law’s breasts, when she wasn’t looking.
“Leo?” Tyler held up the two beers as if to say, “Come join me.” When Tyler saw the man coming, he stepped through the backyard gate and moved between Sam’s house and the neighbor’s. He heard the gate shift behind him.
“What’s up?” Leo asked.
Setting the two beers on top of an air conditioner that hummed as it cooled his sister’s house, Tyler faced Leo, who stood so close that the man’s beer-laden breath filled Tyler’s airspace. He didn’t waste any time getting to the point. “You hit her.”
Leo stepped back or he started to. “It was just a tap.” Before his left foot landed, Tyler’s fist landed on the man’s nose and knocked him flat on his ass.
“Christ!” Leo reached for his nose.
“It was just a tap,” Tyler growled but knew Leo’s nose had to be hurting like hell, because Tyler’s fist did. And he saw his knuckles bleeding where he’d obviously loosened a couple of teeth.
“You fucking jailbird clown! You broke my nose!”
The jailbird word that almost did Tyler in.
Leo started to get up, no doubt to give what he’d gotten, and Tyler almost let him. Almost chose to let go and enjoy this. But taking a deep breath, he pulled his emotions back and moved in to tower over his slimeball of a brother-in-law.
“Don’t do it, Leo. If you get up, I’m going to hit you again. I know you think you want to hit me back. It’s only fair, right? But it wasn’t fair when you hit Sam. And I’m not planning on fighting fair now.”
He rubbed his fist in his other hand and continued, “If you get up, and if you even get one punch in, I’m going to yell for my four brothers and when I tell them what you did, every one of them will help me beat your ass to a pulp. Consider yourself lucky you faced only me this time.”
Leo wiped his bloody nose and stared up with hatred in his eyes. But the man was smarter than Tyler gave him credit for. He didn’t get up.
A damn shame, too. Tyler ached to get in a few more punches, and he would if he ever proved that Leo had something to do with Tyler’s prints showing up at the staged crime scene. Prints on a glass that was the same pattern his sister had owned at the time. Someone had to have helped the drug lord asshole who had framed him and his partners, Dallas and Austin. Right now, Leo was Tyler’s prime suspect. However, considering Tyler had been unjustly accused, he wasn’t accusing anyone until he had proof.
“Oh,” he added, “if I see one bruise, one little bruise, on my sister, I won’t come alone next time.” Pulling off the red rubber nose, he tossed it at Leo. “Since I broke yours, have this one.”
~
“Spiders. Definitely spiders.”
“Don’t forget snakes.”
“Trust me, it’s clowns.” Zoe Adams removed her waitress apron and added her two cents to the conversation the other waitresses of Cookie’s Cafe were having on their biggest fears. She plopped down on one of the stools lining the breakfast counter, and pulled out her tips to count. She hoped she had enough to pay the rent. Looking up at the other diner employees, she added, “And considering my regular gig is that of kindergarten teacher, I’ve had to face that fear more times than I care to admit.”
“I’d take a clown over a spider any day,” said Jamie. Like Zoe, she was in her mid-twenties.
“I can step on a spider,” Zoe said, looking at the other waitresses. “Clowns are too big for my size sixes.” She held up her foot. “I don’t know what it is, but I see one and it’s like I hear scary music and my mind starts flashing Friday the 13th images.” In truth, clowns weren’t her biggest fear. Small, dark places scared Zoe more than anything. Not that she’d share that with the ladies at Cookie’s, or anyone else for that matter.
Some things Zoe didn’t talk about. Especially the things she didn’t understand. And lately her life was filled with a lot of those things. Crazy how watching an episode of the TV series Unsolved Mystery Hunters had turned her life upside down, and brought her from Alabama to Texas in search of the truth.
“Flying roaches. I hate ‘em,” Dixie Talbot said, joining in on the conversation. In her sixties, Dixie was the matriarchal cook, waitress, and part-owner of Cookie’s Café. “Years ago, I stood right over there by Booth Two and one of those nasty creatures flew into my shirt.”
Zoe stopped counting her money and laughed. “Yeah, Fred told me about the striptease you pulled, too.”
“Honey, he’d better b
e glad that roach flew off my right boob once the top came off or I swear to everything holy I’d have been standing there naked as a jay bird.”
“Was that the day he proposed to you?” Zoe asked.
They laughed. It was the laughter, the camaraderie of Dixie and the other diner employees that kept Zoe from looking for a higher paying gig while she was here. God knew she could use the money. Kindergarten teachers didn’t rake in the big bucks.
Oh, it was enough to get by, but not enough to fund this research trip to Miller, Texas when she had to pay for two apartments. Not to mention the entire month off from work—a month she only got because the principal had been friends with her mom. But more than money, Zoe needed companionship. Since her mama died two years ago, and especially for the last year since her live-in boyfriend had decided he’d rather date a stripper than a kindergarten teacher, Zoe had spent too much time alone.
And lonely.
Hey, maybe she should get Dixie to teach her a few moves. Not that Zoe wanted Chris back. Nope. For four years, she’d given her heart and soul to that man. She’d already had names picked out for the two kids they’d give life to, thinking any day he’d pop the question. And he had popped one. It just wasn’t the question she’d expected. “Do you mind if I bring home my stripper girlfriend to live here until you can find another place?”
Okay, he hadn’t actually worded it like that, but he might as well have. He’d taken Zoe’s heart, and returned it, along with her self-esteem, in a big mangled mess. Not so much of a mess that she hadn’t reminded him that she’d been the one to rent the apartment, and he could just grab his stuff and get the hell out. Oh, he’d accused her being so unfair. Didn’t she realize it wasn’t his fault he’d fallen in love with someone else?
What she understood was that she’d been played for a fool—paying most of the bills, being his personal housecleaner, trying to be the perfect housewife. Even a year later, it still stung like a paper cut right across her heart.
Zoe’s cell rang. Considering she’d gotten all of two calls in the four weeks she’d been in Texas—one from her principal back in Alabama confirming she’d be at work on September 25th, and the other a wrong number—a call was a big thing. Zoe checked the number. Unknown Caller.
“Hello?” Zoe answered. While she hated it, there was a part of her that hoped it would be Chris, wanting her back, telling her he’d screwed up. Not that she’d take him back, but it would be nice to know he missed her.
She heard someone breathing, but nothing else. “Hello?”
“Leave,” the whispery voice said.
Turn the page to read the first three chapters from Born at Midnight, the bestseller from Christie Craig (writing as C.C. Hunter), available in trade paperback and ebook wherever books are sold.
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Chapter One
“This isn’t funny!” her father yelled.
No, it wasn’t, Kylie Galen thought as she leaned into the refrigerator to find something to drink. In fact, it was so not funny she wished she could crawl in beside the mustard and moldy hotdogs, shut the door, and not hear the angry voices spewing from the living room.
Her parents were at it again.
Not that it would go on much longer, she thought as the mist of the fridge seeped out the door.
Today was the day.
Kylie’s throat tightened. She swallowed a lump of raw emotion and refused to cry.
Today had to be the suckiest day of her life. And she’d had some pretty sucky days lately, too. Acquiring a stalker, Trey breaking up with her, and her parents announcing their divorce — yup, sucky pretty much covered it. It was no wonder her night terrors had returned full force.
“What have you done with my underwear?” Her father’s growl spilled into the kitchen, snuck under the refrigerator door and bounced around the moldy hotdogs.
His underwear? Kylie pressed a cold diet soda can to her forehead.
“Why would I do anything with your underwear?” her mother asked in her oh-so nonchalant voice. That was her mom alright, nonchalant. Cold as ice.
Kylie’s gaze shot out the kitchen window to the patio where she’d seen her mom earlier. There, a pair of her dad’s tighty-whities dangled half out of the smoldering grill.
Just great. Her mother had barbequed her father’s shorts. That’s it. Kylie was never eating anything cooked on that grill again.
Fighting tears, she shoved the diet soda back on the rack, shut the fridge, and moved into the doorway. Maybe if they saw her, they’d stop acting like juveniles and let her be the kid again.
Her dad stood in the middle of the room, a pair of underwear clutched in his fist. Her mom sat on the sofa, calmly sipping hot tea.
“You need psychological help,” her father yelled at her mom.
Two points for her dad, Kylie thought. Her mom did need help. So why was Kylie the one who had to sit on a shrink’s sofa two days a week?
Why was her dad—the man everyone swore Kylie had wrapped around her little finger—going to move out today, and leave her behind?
She didn’t blame her dad for wanting to leave her mom, AKA the Ice Queen. But why wasn’t he taking Kylie with him? Another lump rose in her throat.
Dad swung around and saw her, then shot back into the bedroom, obviously to pack the rest of his things—minus his underwear, which at this moment sent up smoke signals from the backyard grill.
Kylie stood there, staring at her mom, who sat reading over work files as if it was any other day.
The framed photographs of Kylie and her father that hung over the sofa caught her attention and tears stung her eyes. The pictures had been taken on their annual father and daughter trips.
“You’ve got to do something,” Kylie pleaded.
“Do what?” her mom asked.
“Change his mind. Tell him you’re sorry you grilled his shorts.” That you’re sorry you’ve got ice water running through your veins. “I don’t give a flip what you do, just don’t let him go.”
“You don’t understand.” And just like that, her mom, void of any emotion, shifted her attention back to her papers.
Right then, her dad, suitcase in his hand, shot through the living room. Kylie went after him and followed him out the door into Houston’s stifling afternoon heat.
“Take me with you,” she begged, not caring if he saw her tears. Maybe the tears would help. There’d been a time when crying got her whatever she wanted from him. “I don’t eat much,” she sniffled, giving humor a shot.
He shook his head but, unlike her mom, at least he had emotion in his eyes. “You don’t understand.”
You don’t understand. “Why do y’all always say that? I’m sixteen years old. If I don’t understand, then explain it to me. Tell me the big secret and get it over with.”
He stared down at his feet as if this was a test and he’d penned the answers on the toes of his shoes. Sighing, he looked up. “Your mom . . . she needs you.”
“Needs me? Are you kidding? She doesn’t even want me.” And neither do you. The realization caused Kylie’s breath to catch in her lungs. He really didn’t want her.
She wiped a tear from her cheek and that’s when she saw him again. Not her dad, but Soldier Dude, aka her very own stalker. Standing across the street, he wore the same army duds as before. He looked as if he’d just walked out of one of those Gulf War movies her mom loved. Only instead of shooting at things or being blown up, he stood frozen in one spot, and stared right at Kylie with sad, yet very scary eyes.
She’d noticed him stalking her a few w
eeks ago. He’d never spoken to her and she hadn’t spoken to him. But the day she pointed him out to her mom, and Mom hadn’t seen him . . . well, that’s when Kylie’s world slid off its axis. Her mom thought she was making it up to get attention, or worse. With the worse being that Kylie was losing her grip on reality. Sure, the night terrors that had tormented her when she was a kid had returned, worse than ever. Her mom said the shrink could help her work through them but how could she do that when Kylie didn’t even remember them? She only knew they were bad. Bad enough to have her wake up screaming.
Kylie wanted to scream now. Wanted to scream for her dad to turn around and look—to prove that she hadn’t lost her mind. At the very least, maybe if her dad actually saw her stalker, her parents would let her off from seeing the shrink. It wasn’t fair.
But life wasn’t fair, as her mom had reminded her more than once.
Nevertheless, when Kylie looked back, he was gone. Not Soldier Dude, but her dad. She turned toward the driveway and saw him shoving his suitcase in the backseat of his red convertible Mustang. Mom had never liked that car, but dad loved it.
Kylie ran to the car. “I’ll make Grandma talk to Mom. She’ll fix . . .” No sooner had the words escaped Kylie’s lips than she remembered the other major sucky event she’d had plopped into her life.
She couldn’t run to Grandma to fix her problems anymore. Because Grandma was dead. Gone. The vision of Nana lying cold in the casket filled Kylie’s head and another lump crawled up her throat.
Her dad’s expression morphed into parental concern, the same look that had landed Kylie at the shrink’s office three weeks ago.
“I’m fine. I just forgot.” Because remembering hurt too much. She felt a lone tear roll down her cheek.
Dad moved in and hugged her. The embrace lasted even longer than his usual hugs, but it ended too soon. How could she let him go? How could he leave her?
His arm dropped from around her and he physically set her back. “I’m just a phone call away, Pumpkin.”
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