The Lightning's Kiss: Wylie Westerhouse Book 3

by Nathan Roden

  I reached and picked up my bag.

  “Why don’t you just admit what this is all about? I’m right where you want to be—with two major differences.”

  “Like what?”

  “You can’t sing—or I wouldn’t even be in the picture,” I said.

  Apollo glared at me.

  “That’s one.”

  “You’re in love with her,” I said.

  He took a step toward me. I didn’t move. I wanted to. Real bad.

  “If you hurt her—if you even hurt her feelings,” Apollo said.

  “I will kill you.”

  I didn’t move. I stared at Apollo’s back until he disappeared around the corner. I waited until I was sure that he was out of earshot.

  “Mr. KwyK,” I said.

  The ghost stared at me for one brief moment, and then he vanished.

  Eighteen

  Tara Jamison

  Wellmore Village, Scotland

  The Innkeeper peered through the filthy blinds for the thirtieth time. He saw nothing. Again.

  He took the young girl’s money four days ago, though he did not believe her story for one instant. She could not look him in the eye as she explained that she was traveling with her father. She said that her father was so ill that he did not dare come inside.

  He could be contagious, you know, the girl had said.

  What the Innkeeper did know, was that he was in no position to turn down rent money from anyone. The rooms were in varying states of disrepair, and going downhill by the day. In the last year, The Inn’s only paying customers had been shady characters. These tenants appeared less interested in amenities like functional plumbing, and more interested in a place to be invisible.

  The girl signed her name; Ellie McGuire. The Innkeeper did not believe this either, but her money was quite genuine. The seven days’ worth of rent made him lick his lips.

  The Innkeeper walked to a worn-out chair in the lobby. He kicked the foot of the man who was sleeping in that chair.

  “Call your people again,” the Innkeeper said.

  The man grunted and struggled to get to his feet. The Innkeeper employed this man as a maintenance man and security guard. He was not good at either position. He was very good at sleeping, as had been discovered during his brief career as a local police officer. He was dismissed after the third time he was found asleep on his rounds. He did, however, keep contact with two officers with whom he shared a love for drinking and gossiping.

  The Innkeeper was not concerned with the young girl’s well-being. He was concerned with the possibility of a reward, if the girl was a runaway. The Innkeeper had heard tales of rich rewards for locating runaways—especially those from wealthy families. These children would be more likely to have pocket money, and less inclined to sleep outdoors.

  “Huh,” the man said into the phone. “Ya don’t say!”

  “He don’t say what?” the Innkeeper said.

  The man waved the Innkeeper away and listened to his phone for the next two minutes.

  “There is a young girl of sixteen—they got top-secret alerts here on the streets,” the man said. “The description matches this young lady, sure enough, but it’s quite a long-shot. The alert comes from England—London, most likely.”

  “What is the girl’s name?” the Innkeeper asked.

  The man shook his head.

  “It don’t work like that. They don’t put out names—just descriptions. If they put out names, then people start hounding the poor kids’ families. And then you get the bounty hunters and criminals hoping to land some ransom money.”

  “The police would not send an alert this far away if there was nothing extraordinary about this girl,” the Innkeeper said. He licked his lips. “My guess would be that she comes from a powerful or wealthy family.”

  “My friend says that it’s no ordinary little girl they’re looking for, Guv’nor. Their instructions are, ‘locate, retain visual, and call in backup’. There’s something about that girl that’s hotter than a baller’s armpit. I don’t know what could make her so dangerous, Boss, but it don’t take a lot of muscle to pull a trigger.”

  “Walk the lot again,” the Innkeeper said.

  “Oh, for the love of—” the man objected.

  “On second thought, I’ll do it myself,” the Innkeeper said. He opened the office door.

  “Get out. You’re fired.”

  “Now, just a minute, Guv’nor—”

  “I’m not your Guv’nor,” the Innkeeper said. “Just another former employer—where you are no longer welcome to sleep.”

  The man held up his hands.

  “Look, Boss. I didn’t mean nuthin’. I’ll….I’ll get her. I’ll grab her—and bring her right here to you. Right here to your office.”

  The Innkeeper pondered for a moment. He jerked his thumb toward the back of the office.

  “The back door. You grab her and keep her quiet. Bring her to the back door. If you don’t have the girl—don’t come back.”

  “You got it,” the man said, straightening out his clothing. He picked up his long-handled flashlight, turned, and left the office.

  The man strolled through the parking lot and then around the outsides of the property. He was slightly winded. He pulled a flask from his coat pocket and pulled a drink. He sat down on a bench—out of sight of the Inn’s office.

  When he jolted awake, it was almost dark. He stood and walked past the block of rooms where the girl stayed. He paused at her door and listened. He returned to the bench and slumped down. He was about to close his eyes again when movement caught his eye.

  It was her. She held a cup in one hand, and a paper sack in the other.

  “Good evenin’, Miss,” the man nodded to Tara. He stood slowly. “My nose tells me you’re carryin’ a nice fish and chips dinner.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Tara said. “It’s been a long day. I haven’t had time for a bite until now. Good evening to you.”

  The man followed her.

  “How’s your dad coming along? I don’t believe I’ve seen him out and about.”

  “Oh, he’s much better,” Tara slowed as she approached her door. “Getting stronger every day. It’s a good thing, too. He’s always been strong as a bull. A mad bull.”

  “Is that so?” the man asked. “He might grow even stronger if he was real.”

  The man grabbed Tara’s wrist. He pulled a roll of tape from his pants pocket. Tara did not make a sound. She looked around to see if anyone was watching. She watched two sets of drapes draw closed.

  Thanks for nothing, ya pile of human garbage! Tara thought.

  “I’m not gonna hurt you, little one!” the man said as he wrapped his arm around Tara and prepared to gag her.

  “We’re just gonna get you back home, where you belong.”

  Tara only pretended to struggle. She was not frightened by the man, or by her situation. Her only concern was with being observed and recognized. She allowed the man to gag her and guide her through the shadows and across the parking lot. He led her to the back side of the Inn’s office.

  The man knocked on the office door. The door opened, and there stood the mostly toothless Innkeeper with a broad smile on his face.

  The man thought for a moment that Tara had bitten his arm. He felt an intense burning sensation, and then he saw black smoke rise before his eyes.

  He felt a burn because his arm was on fire.

  The man tried to push Tara away from him. She grabbed him and threw him head-first into the Innkeeper. The flames spread quickly from one man to the other. The cheap fabrics inside of the office ignited almost instantly. Tara stood outside of the door while the two men screamed and coughed. They dropped to their knees and tried to crawl outside.

  Tara watched them as she pulled the tape from around her head. The Innkeeper crawled over the maintenance/security man and made it halfway across the threshold. Tara swung her leg and kicked him under the chin. He flew back inside the office door and lay silent. />
  The security man who had captured her dragged himself across the floor. Tara raised her right hand. The man began to move backward—into the room.

  “No!” the man cried. “No! Please! I’ll do whatever—!”

  Tara bent over and slowly wrapped the tape around the man’s head.

  She put a finger to her lips.

  “Sh,” she whispered. She raised her hand again.

  The man rose from the ground and flipped backward inside of the office. The door slammed itself shut.

  Nineteen

  Wylie Westerhouse

  St. Louis, Missouri

  I didn’t have a lot to do for the next few days. Skyler, Chris, Grayson, and her band were pulling late hours finishing up her album. Chris called me in for a couple of background vocal tracks, but that didn’t take long.

  The inactivity wasn’t doing me much good. It gave me too much time to think, and my imagination isn’t always my best friend. Nate was spending more time with Bo and the rest of the band—playing basketball, mostly. They weren’t forced to hang around the studio like I was.

  I overheard Chris and Grayson talking the day before yesterday. Skyler’s album was late.

  I saw a few new people hanging around the studio; two of them were from Skyler’s record company. They stayed close to Chris and Veronica. The majority of their conversations were in whispers.

  I saw three other guys unload cases of equipment and stack them in the lounge area outside of the studio control room. I kept my ears open and discovered that the audio mastering engineer was setting up a make-shift studio here. The mastering engineer is the guy who puts the final touches on the recordings before they are sent off to be mass-produced.

  I know enough about the business to know that this was extremely unusual. They would not have resorted to that kind of arrangement unless they were desperate to save time. It was going to cost a fortune.

  I started going to the gym every night. I hated to admit it, but Apollo shamed me into making more of an attempt to get into shape. The first night, Apollo was there with two of the other dancers. I wasn’t exactly best buddies with any of them—we just nodded at each other. Not Apollo, of course. I ignored him, and he ignored me.

  It may have only been for my benefit, but Apollo doesn’t act like a dancer in the gym. He acts more like a regular gym rat—with the grunting and the growling, and sometimes even screaming. The other dancers didn’t act like it was anything unusual.

  There was no way I was going to use any weights or machines while Apollo was there. I couldn’t move the weights that he used, and I wasn’t about to give any of the dancers the opportunity to laugh at me. I put on my headphones and moved from the treadmill to the stationary bike. I finished up on the stair-climber. Two hours later, one of the dancers quit for the night. Apollo and the other guy kept going. I finally gave up, wiped the sweat off my forehead, and headed for the door.

  “Awesome workout, Princess,” I heard Apollo say. That was followed by a burst of laughter from his friend.

  I kept moving. There was nothing else I could do. I thought back to my high school, and my old neighborhood. I tried to imagine what life would be like if the story got out that I had my butt handed to me by a professional dancer.

  Tuesday night, I watched Skyler through the control room window. She was working on the vocal tracks for one of her most challenging songs. That song had a lot of high notes. I could tell that she was getting frustrated, and Chris kept having her sing it over and over again. She finally ripped the headphones off of her head and threw them against the control room window. I sneaked out of the control room door, and into the breezy, cool night. Veronica KwyK and two members of the security staff stood at the edge of the patio. They were all smoking. Cigarettes, I mean.

  Veronica threw hers down when she saw me.

  Really? I thought. Why would I care?

  I looked at Veronica and thought to myself—

  Just how much are you and your daughter alike? Skyler is close to having a meltdown inside the studio right now. Is that unusual? Or does the fact that my single is ranking higher on the charts than hers have something to do with that?

  I swear I don’t even know what to think anymore.

  I’m the luckiest guy on the planet—but some people hate me. And I haven’t done anything other than to take advantage of an opportunity.

  I’m the guy who lost his job and his singing career at the same time. Not long ago, I wanted nothing more on this earth than to be able to keep a roof over my head and feed myself and my dog.

  How did I get here?

  I walked over to Toby’s room and let him out. We walked next door and visited with his wife. Okay, Gracie isn’t Toby’s wife, but she’s pregnant with Toby’s puppies, so you call her whatever you want. I call her Toby’s wife.

  Gracie is getting pretty plump; she could be a mom any day now. Gracie is a sweetheart. Toby did good. We hung out for a little while, and then I put Toby back in his room.

  I had planned to go back into the studio in case Chris needed me for some reason. It was getting pretty cold outside. Veronica was no longer on the patio. I hoped she wasn’t inside the studio since things hadn’t been going so well.

  I opened the first of the double doors into the building.

  I could hear yelling—two or three different voices. I heard Veronica and Skyler.

  I backed out of the door, and went back to Toby’s room and let him out.

  I took a blanket from my room. Toby and I walked to the gazebo next to the swimming pool. I could smell the smoldering ashes from the outdoor fireplace. I added a log, and then Toby and I snuggled up under the blanket.

  I wasn’t stupid enough to believe that my new life was going to be all lollipops and rainbows, but the last twenty-four hours had gone downhill fast. I had no idea what was going on with Skyler, and one of her dancers wants to kill me.

  I wasn’t about to panic. I’ve been through my share of crap, and I’ve had to grow a thick skin. But there was a thought lingering in the back of my mind that was making me uncomfortable.

  I had lived the last ten years of my life dreaming about the life that I was now experiencing. No, that’s not exactly right. There’s no way that I could have even dreamed of the opportunity that I was living at this very moment. And so, where did that leave me, on that cold and lonely night in St. Louis?

  Dreaming about being a tour guide at the Castle McIntyre.

  Twenty

  Wylie Westerhouse

  St. Louis, Missouri

  There was no agenda for Thursday—not until that night’s press conference.

  Nate, Toby, and I watched a Boris Karloff classic movie on Wednesday night. We even invited a special guest.

  Gracie.

  I moved Gracie’s and Toby’s bed into our floor. Gracie waddled over to hers. She was showing prominently—carrying seven of Toby’s puppies. Gracie circled and lay down, with a little difficulty. Toby walked over and pushed her with his nose like he wanted to play.

  Gracie gave him that look that many men recognize—the look that says, “Why don’t you act your age?”

  I’m not sure when we went to sleep. I know it was before the movie was over.

  I woke up the next morning without any kind of alarm. I opened one eye and saw that Nate was still asleep. I swung my legs off of the bed and sat up. Toby was sitting and staring at me with an odd expression. I heard weird noises coming from the end of the bed.

  Sometime during the night, Toby and Gracie became parents.

  I grabbed Toby’s head and kissed him on the nose.

  “Congratulations, Buddy.”

  I walked around and stroked Gracie’s head. She looked exhausted but happy. The kids had found all the right parts and were having breakfast.

  I stepped over and shook Nate awake.

  “What?” he groaned with one eye half open.

  “No. This is ‘free day’, Wyles. Go back to sleep.”

  “We have
visitors,” I said. I pointed toward Gracie’s bed.

  Nate rose up on his elbow.

  “No way!”

  “Yeah, that’s how it works,” I said. “I’ll explain it all to you when you’re a little older.”

  “Have you told Skyler yet?”

  “I just woke up. I’d better call her.”

  Nate crawled out of bed and knelt next to Gracie. He stroked her head.

  “They’re gonna be precious, I’m sure,” he said. “Right now, they look like wet gym socks.”

  I laughed.

  “Aw, man,” Nate said, running a hand through his hair. “The one morning we have to sleep in, and I have to put on pants.”

  “You and your Sponge-Bob boxers can always hide in the bathroom,” I said.

  Nate yawned and stretched.

  “These aren’t Sponge-Bob. These are Minions.”

  “I got you Sponge-Bob boxers for Christmas,” I said. “And you don’t even wear them.”

  “Quit buying me underwear, Wyles. It creeps Tooie out.”

  “I am so misunderstood,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Nate said. “I wonder why?”

  “I’m starving,” Nate said. “I want eighteen pancakes and an extra-large Special.”

  A “Special” is how Nate refers to his favorite beverage—the chocolate cherry vanilla Dr. Pepper.

  “The Truck Stop?” I asked.

  Nate cocked his head and looked at me.

  “I said pancakes. I thought we were in agreement that there are no better pancakes on the planet than at the Truck Stop.”

  I nodded.

  “It’s true. I wonder what their secret is.”