by CJ Lyons
CJ Lyons: SNAKESKIN 198
SNAKE SKIN
CJ Lyons
PRAISE FOR CJ LYONS:
"Adrenalin pumping." ~The Mystery Gazette
"Riveting." ~Publishers Weekly Beyond Her Book
"Smart and intriguing, and her character development is so incredible that she leaves me literally breathless waiting to see what will happen next." ~Becky Lejeune, Bookbitch.com
Lyons "is a master within the genre." ~Pittsburgh Magazine
"Breathtakingly fast-paced." ~Publishers Weekly
"A winner!" ~Romantic Times, Top Pick
"Simply superb…riveting drama…a perfect ten." ~Romance Reviews Today
"Characters with beating hearts and three dimensions." ~Newsday
"A pulse-pounding adrenalin rush!" ~Lisa Gardner
"Packed with adrenalin." ~David Morrell
"Engrossing, intriguing..." ~Heather Graham
"An adrenalin rush and an all-around great read." ~Allison Brennan
"…Harrowing, emotional, action-packed and brilliantly realized. CJ Lyons writes with the authority only a trained physician can bring to a story, blending suspense, passion and friendship into an irresistible read." ~Susan Wiggs
"Simply exceptional. The action never lets up…keeps you on the edge of your seat." ~Roundtable Reviews
"Explodes on the page…I absolutely could not put it down." ~Romance Readers' Connection
"A perfect blend of romance and suspense. My kind of read." ~#1 New York Times Bestselling author Sandra Brown
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2011, CJ Lyons
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Library of Congress Case # 1-273031561
Smashwords Edition
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
SNAKE SKIN
CJ Lyons
Chapter 1
Friday: 2:18 pm
She stroked the tip of her thumbnail against her tongue, testing. Not sharp enough. Yet.
Nibbling the edge, enjoying the crunch of keratin against enamel, Ashley propped both elbows on the table and hunched forward. Other than the old guy behind the counter giving her an oogly-woogly pervert stare, the Tastee Treet was empty.
It was your typical hotdog shack. Cracked vinyl booths crowded the dining area, waiting to be filled by squealing cheerleaders and boasting football players after Friday night football games. A fifties-style melamine radio behind the counter warbled some tune older than even Ashley's parents, something about fast cars and fast boys and the dangers of loving them, punctuated by the sizzle and pop of the fryer.
No sign of Bobby. She couldn't help but glance behind her, out to the gravel parking lot, even though she knew she'd hear his car easily through the plexi-glass windows and plywood walls. Her stomach knotted with anticipation—he was so handsome, and god, those eyes, they saw right into her soul—would he like her once they finally met in person?
Would he be disappointed? Think she was too young? Too immature? Worry gnawed at her as she raised a finger to her mouth. No. She'd outgrown that nasty habit. There wasn't room in her life for any of that. Not once she and Bobby made their escape.
She glanced at her watch before removing it, then slid it over top the chrome and glass pepper shaker. The last vestige of her past, it had served her well. Despite taking three buses and walking half a mile, she was still ten minutes early.
Each leg of the journey had left her feeling buoyant, discarding bits and pieces of herself the way her father's beloved creepy snakes shed their skin. As if her old life was made up of fourteen years worth of flaky, parchment-thin memories that she'd out-grown and left behind to crumble into dust and blow away.
"Did you want to order anything, miss?" the counter guy asked, startling her. His face was shadowed by a Steelers ball cap pulled low. She'd felt his stare ever since she entered.
The grease-laden aroma of French fries and burgers perfumed the air, making her stomach growl. She ignored it. It was important to stay in control. "No. I'm just waiting for someone."
Control. She adjusted the watch, centering it exactly, brushing stray pepper grains away, trying to deny her flutter of anxiety. And failing.
Abandoning the watch, she spread her palms flat on the table top, her breath coming in fast, sharp gasps. What if Bobby thought she was ugly? What if he didn't like her? What if...
She turned her left hand palm up, slashing her thumbnail against the bare skin of her wrist.
Ahhh...Relief sighed through her at the sight of the red welt, the tiny beads of crimson, the oh-so straight and precise line.
Staring at her blood, she was able to breathe again.
Her tongue slid between her teeth and lips as the urge to taste the blood became overwhelming. Just this once. She would quit after she and Bobby were together. Promise.
Flexing her wrist, she forced another small dot of crimson to the surface. So shiny, so wet.
She held her wrist perfectly steady, denying the tremors vibrating beneath her skin, a current of palpable electricity. Her stomach tensed with anticipation as each beat of her heart made the red blossoms shudder.
Not yet...not yet. She was in control.
Ashley raised her eyes. The geezer at the counter still stared at her. Fuckwad. He had to be as old as her father. Double fuckwad. She sharpened her gaze into a deadly glare. He flinched, looked away. Lech.
Bobby should be here any moment. Escape was almost at hand. She'd been such a good girl, waiting, controlling her impulse to cut and run.
She carefully rolled her sleeve back, exposing the other trophies her control had won. Each scar a triumph. Each scar a time she hadn't run screaming out into the night or thrown herself in front of a bus or jumped from a bridge.
Each scar reminding her that she could win, that she mattered, that somewhere inside this cold, numb husk, she was alive.
Raising her wrist, she slowly, with gentle flicks, not wasting a drop, licked the blood. Still warm, so salty as it slipped across her tongue, down her throat.
Sometimes, she felt like she was floating outside her body, searching for another life. Cutting helped her re-connect, grounding her, even if she did always find herself right back where she started. Same old body, same old life.
Same nowhere future.
This was her last time. Promise. As soon as Bobby came to rescue her, she'd never do it again. Never need to. As soon as Bobby got here, everything would be fine.
He’d promised.
"Excuse me, miss?" It was the scuzzy counter guy, leaning over her, bending much too close as he reached for the napkin dispenser.
Ashley tried to pull away but he had her pinned against the side of the booth. His arm brushed the back of her neck, caressing her hair. Pervert.
"Hey, back off!" Something sharp jabbed her neck. "What the—"
Disappointment trumped her fear for one impossibly long instant. She'd never get to see Bobby….then the ramifications of that fleeting thought flash-froze her with terror.
"Do
n't be afraid," he said, sliding down to sit beside her, his arm wrapping her in an embrace impossible to escape. Not with her entire body turning to melted jello, soft and mushy, and swimming away from her.
It took a few seconds for his words to penetrate as she tried to speak and failed, the only thing emerging a trail of drool. She slumped against him, her head lolling to one side, the taste of blood lingering, fresh on her tongue. Bobby, where was Bobby?
"Don't worry, Ashley," he said as her vision danced with kaleidoscope colors. "I'm here to save you."
Chapter 2
Saturday, 7:34 am
Lucy Guardino hated this part. The right before it started part. The waiting part.
Killing time, she rummaged through her frayed denim bag as she sat in the Blazer's passenger seat. Fletcher had done a good job. Little girl's barrette, a hair scrunchie, crumbled Giant Eagle receipt, and two key chains: one with a set of house keys, the other with a single Dodge van key. She closed her fist around the van key, its sharp edges biting into her skin. The pain helped her to focus, chased away silent stirrings of panic.
All part of the waiting. She'd be fine once it came time for doing. She always was.
The bank's parking lot was quiet at this early hour, heat already steaming the blacktop. The air smelled of fertilizer, mowed hay, and burnt oil. Frogs trilled a duet with cicadas in the field across the parking lot, punctuated by the squeal of airbrakes from the highway beyond it. September in Pennsylvania.
Steadying her breathing, she pictured Katie, only four years old. Pictured what the men wanted to do with her.
No, that was no good—all she saw was her own daughter, all she felt was rage that animals like them were allowed to roam free.
Tossing her head to crack her neck, she took another deep breath. Shoved the image of her daughter aside and thought instead about what the men wanted: power, devotion, adoration….control.
She knew these men, knew how they thought, what they desired. The passions that woke them at three in the morning, sweaty and sick with need. The visions they held in their mind as they jacked off. The longing, sweet anticipation, clawing its way through their veins until they were as powerless to resist as a junkie offered a free hit….
Oh yes, Lucy knew these men.
Calm settled over her, hypnotic as the burble of childhood streams, cool water, warm mud between her toes. She and her father had loved to go fishing. He always said fishing was all about the art of dangling bait. Showing them what they wanted but not ever letting them have it. That's all this was, a different kind of fishing.
She closed her eyes for a moment, smiling at the memory. Dad was right. And Lucy was a good fisherman. She lived for that instant when the line snapped taut, ready to break, adrenalin stretching the moment, time holding its breath until she took control and finessed the fish into shore—right where she wanted it.
Her phone rang, shattering the calm.
"Now, don't worry," Nick said, which of course sent her pulse racing into overdrive. He always said that when there was something to worry about. "Megan just called and her fever's back. And her throat is sore again. I got a hold of the doctor and he can see her if we can get her there by nine, but my first client is already on their way—"
Lucy glanced at the dashboard clock. The meet should be a quick in and out, just to confirm all the details and make sure there weren't any new players to add to their roster. And Nick's practice was so new, he couldn't risk angering clients by canceling. "I can do it."
"You sure?"
She didn't take offense—he had reason to doubt, she'd been held up before by work.
But it was a Saturday. And he'd taken Megan to the doctor two weeks ago—if the strep had come back, Lucy wanted to be there to get some answers.
"No problem. I'm sure."
"Call me, let me know what the doctor says."
"I will. She's okay until I get there?" Megan had been miserable with the strep, she hoped it wasn't back again. Guilt washed over her. Work had been busy, too busy, and she couldn't remember the last time she'd been home in time to do more than tuck Megan in. Although of course Megan refused to be tucked in by her mom anymore. Twelve going on twenty.
"She's fine. Worried about missing soccer."
"It's time," Fletcher called to her.
"I've got to go. Love ya. Bye." Lucy hung up, pushing all thoughts of her family aside, locking them away safe and sound.
She searched for that calm again. No luck. All she found was an electric current of adrenalin sparking her skin.
One last check in the mirror that she looked the part: large dangling earrings, clunky ugly choker, too-small Lyrca tanktop, tight fitting black stretch jeans, way too much makeup, big hair teased and sprayed to an inch of its life, and three-inch high heel boots.
Typical trailer trash mom doing whatever it took to make ends meet, that was her. Except for one small detail.
She slid her wedding band free and completed her final ritual. A quick kiss for luck, smearing the ring with her too-bright lipstick, then she carefully placed the ring in the change section of her real wallet inside her real bag.
She climbed out of Fletcher's Blazer and slowly spun around for him.
"Wow. You look good," he said as he approached from the side of the SUV. Fletcher wasn't a tall man, was reedy thin as if he forgot to eat sometimes, with the permanent squint of someone who spent most of his waking hours staring at computer monitors. Lucy shot him a glare and he stammered, "I mean, you look, er—"
"Everything ready?" she asked him.
"Yeah, sure, I think."
She folded her arms across her chest, interrupting his appraisal, and he looked up, flushing. "I mean, yes, I'm ready."
It was time. Lucy crossed the parking lot to where the battered Caravan with tinted windows waited. The macadam, soft with heat, grabbed onto her boot heels, giving her one last chance to change her mind.
She wasn't changing her mind. She peered into the back seat, scrutinizing the still form buckled into a booster seat. She circled the van. Checked from every angle. A girl, sleeping, dressed in her Sunday best, slumped in the seat, streams of golden curls tangled and askew, concealing her features.
Lucy got into the van and turned on the ignition, cranking the AC. It was even hotter than yesterday, already eighty-three degrees according to the bank thermometer. Pittsburgh's idea of Indian summer. "Okay, Katie Mae, it's just you and me, kid."
The men had changed the meeting place at the last minute. She hadn't liked that, but it happened. Not too surprising given what they were meeting for. Now it was an old water pumping station off of Route 60. Her team had already done their recon, said the building had been bought by Walter, their main target after standing empty for a decade.
By the time Lucy arrived, the AC had only begun to cool the inside of the van, leaving her clammy with half-dried sweat. Two other cars waited in the gravel parking lot—a beat up Pontiac sedan and a Ford 350 pickup. The white-washed concrete building was on a wooded lot with a stream running along the east side, rusting pipes tunneling through the building's side wall down to the water.
A crudely forged steel cross perched on the roof's peak—a call to worship or a lightning rod? Then she noticed the hand carved wooden sign hanging over the front door, one end a little lower than the other—Lucy itched to straighten it—reading: Church of the Holy Redeemer.
A church?
She worked her jaw from side to side, ligaments crackling with tension. A church.
These guys were full of surprises. Nothing much she could do about it except hope this was the last one.
She left the van running and locked the door behind her. The only obvious luxury the Caravan had was the keypad door lock. In her line of work, it wasn't a luxury, it was a necessity. She touched the window, her fingers tracing Katie's sleeping form. Anxiety resurfaced, splashing through her gut, a trout caught in a net. Another deep breath reined it in.
She wasn't expecting tro
uble. She'd had meetings like this before—so many, she'd lost count—and had never had any trouble.
That didn't mean she wasn't prepared. A short-barreled Smith and Wesson .32 concealed in her denim jacket. Single working mom type of gun.
Tugging her jacket into place, shifting her shoulders until she felt her .32 nestle against her ribcage, she walked towards the building. The cornerstone read 1923, the windows were arched and mullioned with carved keystones overtop of each. Back then even a lowly pumping station received an artisan's attention, she guessed.
The door, an arched slab of wood, popped open while she was still ten feet away. A bearded man, thin, with wire-rim glasses, wearing black slacks and a starched white shirt buttoned all the way to the top collar button, emerged. "Sister Ruby?"
"Yes." She stopped a few feet shy of the entrance. He stood directly beneath the crooked sign. "Are you Walter?"
"I am."
"I'm not sure about this—I mean, a church?"
"Would you like to see our facilities?" He spread an arm open in invitation. Despite his formal tone, his accent was strictly country, rolling in cadence just like the hills surrounding them. He was working hard to play a role.
Lucy's jaw spasmed, sending a shock wave of pain down her neck and spine. On the phone Walter and Henry had been very explicit in what they wanted. But now Walter was acting like she was here for a prayer meeting.
"Where's Henry?"