I’m in the law school library, studying for a debate tomorrow morning, when an official-looking man in a suit suddenly appears, standing over me. “Come with me please, Ms. Love,” he says.
“Why? What’s happened?”
He’s tall and stone-faced. “You need to come with me.”
I shut my books and shove them in my backpack, and I can almost feel part of my heart bleeding. Something is wrong. Very wrong. My knees are wobbling and I think someone calls my name as I follow the man through the hallway, but I don’t hear them. I barely remember how I end up in an office of some sort. “Call your father,” the man directs and shuts me inside.
I dial the number, my hand trembling. “Dad?” I say.
“Your mother’s helicopter has gone down.”
“What? When?”
“An hour ago. There are search-and-rescue teams.”
And then the tears had come.
My memory shifts to being at the secret cove where my mother had gone to be alone, the cliffs, the ocean, the wind, her escape. I knew of that place and Andrew hadn’t. I’d gone alone. I swore I’d never take anyone there. And then I’d met Kane not long after Mom’s death. He’d been my escape, and my mother’s cove had become our cove. It became our escape, the place he told me things he would tell no one else—his fears, his judgements of himself. His truth.
I inhale a deep breath and Pocher is on my mind. He ordered my mother’s murder. There is no doubt this is him again and he’s not even trying to hide it. He wants me to know he did this.
I grab my phone and I dial Tic Tac. “Lilah?”
“Get me the exact location of Pocher right now.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“Get me the location.”
“No. No, I don’t think—”
“Fine. I’ll go to his house. I’ll find him myself.”
I hang up and I open the bathroom door, walking with resolute steps. I refuse any idea that Kane is dead. But I also know that if that chopper was tampered with—and it most certainly was—Pocher is behind it. Jay turns in my direction, but I cut toward the door. I’m already reaching into my back pocket for the key to the Mercedes Kane left here this morning.
I’m out the door and already inside the car when Jay reaches the driver’s side. “Lilah. Lilah, where are you going?”
I don’t answer. I back up and I get the hell out of there.
Killing Pocher is long past due.
It’s time.
THE END…FOR NOW
Dear reader,
As always, I hope you’ll forgive me for the cliffhanger. I promise it’s not to torture you. This is just how my books separate themselves in my mind. I typically know these kinds of bated-breath endings far before I know the middle of the books. But fear not, the finale to this Lilah Love duet, BLOODY LOVE, is available for pre-order and coming soon!
PRE-ORDER AND LEARN MORE HERE:
https://www.lisareneejonesthrillers.com/the-lilah-love-series.html#BloodyLove
TURN THE PAGE TO READ ABOUT WHO MY READERS ARE CALLING THE MALE LILAH LOVE: RICK SAVAGE FROM THE WALKER SECURITY WORLD! AND I’LL ALSO BE SHARING AN EXTENDED PREVIEW OF MY UPCOMING THRILLER, THE POET WHICH IS OUT IN EBOOK, MASS MARKET PAPERBACK, AND AUDIO ON MARCH 9TH!
EXCERPT FROM
THE SAVAGE SERIES
Rick Savage meets Lilah Love…
Notes: Candace is Rick Savage's girlfriend. This scene is in Savage’s point-of-view.
“Just pull us over,” I instruct. “We’ll walk.” He cuts to the curb and halts. I open the door and climb outside, offering Candace my hand, helping her out of the vehicle.
“Can we get past the blockade?”
“We don’t have to get past the blockade,” I say. “We just have to convince Lilah Love to do it for us.”
“And how do we do that?”
I wiggle a brow. “I have my ways.” I catch her hand and lead her through a gathering crowd, toward a portion of the blockade. I pinpoint a target, a plump, red-cheeked, police officer standing guard while lookie-loos hang about in front of him left and right.
I use my linebacker-ish figure to push us to the spot directly in front of the cop. A petite little woman pushes up next to us. “My husband! My husband. I need to see my husband!” She starts to sob and then it’s all hell breaking loose. She tries to go over the barricade. The cop catches her arm. She slaps him.
“Ouch,” I murmur, feeling that sting, and she didn’t even touch me. I also see an opportunity where it presents itself and I duck under the yellow tape, taking Candace with me.
“This seems like a bad idea,” Candace says as we walk in between two parked patrol cars.
“We’re good, baby. We’re good.” We clear the hoods of the cars and I eye the tape set up around a building doorway. That’s where we’ll find Lilah Love and I head in that direction, with Candace in a reluctant tow.
We’ve just reached the edge of that tape, when a brunette no more than five-foot-four, wearing jeans and a blazer, steps from the building, with an officer on her heels. She whirls on him. “Do you understand the words coming out of my mouth?”
“Agent Love—”
“You contaminated the scene. Leave.”
“Agent—”
“Do you know the difference between an apple and an orange?”
The cop bristles. “Of course I know the difference between an apple and an orange.”
“Then one such as myself can assume you know the difference between stay and go. Go.” She motions to another cop. “Get him out of here.”
The shoulders of the fuckup cop bunch, but he rotates and walks away. Agent Love turns back toward the building door.
“Agent Lilah Love.” She turns at her name and glances in our direction, closing the space between us.
“Who are you?” she demands. “And why are you inside my crime scene?”
“Rick Savage,” I say.
“We didn’t order a stripper.” She smiles and eyes Candace. “I always wanted to say that to someone else. Who are you?”
“Candace—”
“Do you go by Candy Savage? That’s an excellent stripper name.”
“Because Lilah Fucking Love isn’t an excellent stripper name?” I challenge.
Candace laughs. “She’s right, Rick. It really does sound like a stripper name.”
Lilah glances between us and then gives me a deadpan look. “What do you want?”
“I need to reach Kane.”
“I told you on the phone that I’m not his keeper.”
“Just the woman that shares his bed that he’d also kill for?”
“He shares my bed and I’d kill for him,” she corrects. “Which does not make me his business manager.”
“He was supposed to meet me today,” I say. “Call him. Tell him, Savage—”
“I can’t call him. He’s dealing with an unexpected situation. He’ll call you when it’s contained.”
“That’s unacceptable.”
Lilah folds her arms in front of her and just stares at me.
“Tell him,” I add, “to shoot the motherfucker giving him trouble, and call me now.”
“Unlike me, and apparently you, Kane doesn’t just ‘shoot the motherfucker.’ But I will. Especially you.” She smiles like she enjoys the idea. I think she might.
“Okay then,” I say. “Let me tell you a story. Pocher, we both know you know Pocher, wants to kill Candace. He also wants to meet with her at six tonight. Candace is my Lilah. I not only sleep with her, I will kill for her which means that I’ll be killing Pocher tonight at six, and I’ll just let Kane deal with the aftermath. I’m sure the next guy in charge of the Society won’t have a hard-on to kill you the way Pocher does. And even if he does, I’m sure Kane can just chop his brother’s finger off, and make it all better.” I catch Candace’s arm. “Let’s go, baby.” We start to turn.
“Stop.�
�
I turn back to Lilah and arch a brow. “Yes?”
“You’re a fucking asshole.”
“And you’re a fucking bitch.”
“That’s true. Meet me at Stephanie’s diner in an hour. You found me. I’m sure you’re resourceful enough to find it.”
“I’ll follow the yellow brick road lined with M&M’s.”
“Don’t do anything stupid.” She turns and walks away.
FIND OUT MORE ABOUT THE SAVAGE SERIES HERE:
https://www.lisareneejones.com/savage-series.html
THE POET
COMING TO EBOOK, MASS MARKET PAPERBACK IN STORES NATIONWIDE, AND AUDIO MARCH 9TH!
New York Times bestselling author Lisa Renee Jones brings a fresh, modern take to the thriller genre that will keep you guessing until the very end.
“The poet is a liar who always speaks the truth.” -Jean Cocteau
Some call him friend or boss.
Some call him husband or dad.
Some call him son, even a favorite son.
But the only title that matters to him is the one the media has given him: The Poet.
A name he earned from the written words he leaves behind after he kills that are as dark and mysterious as the reason he chooses his victims.
One word, two, three, a story in a poem, a secret that only Detective Samantha Jazz can solve. Because he’s writing this story for her.
She just doesn’t know it yet.
PRE-ORDER AND LEARN MORE:
https://www.lisareneejonesthrillers.com/the-samantha-jazz-series.html
TURN THE PAGE FOR AN EXTENDED PREVIEW!
PROLOGUE
1996
GEORGETOWN, TEXAS
Tap, tap, tap, tap…
I jerk my gaze from the pretty girl in the corner, who just joined our class today, to the front of the room where Sister Marion is beating her desk with a ruler, her sharp features pinched with anger. She’s mad almost as often as my dad.
“Enough of this jabbering,” she reprimands. “We’re here to do our Lord justice by using our minds the way they were intended to be used. And how are our minds meant to be used, class?”
Me and the rest of the class and I quickly recite, “To their fullest potential, Sister Marion.”
“That’s right,” she approves. “And we cannot do so if we are not listening carefully, which we are not doing when we’re running our mouths at inappropriate times. We must speak with thoughtful discipline.”
She moves behind her big wooden desk and sets the ruler down on top. Thank God. I hate that ruler.
“Today,” she announces, “we start our poetry series.” She flips open a book and begins reading a poem. It’s boring. I hate it. I don’t even understand the words coming out of her mouth.
My eyes are heavy, lids fluttering with the call of sleep. I fight it. I fight hard to stay awake, but somehow my chin wobbles forward and hits my chest. Oh God, no. Adrenaline surges, waking me with a sharp lift of my head. My heart races with the fear I might be caught. My eyes land on Sister Marion, who is staring at a book, not at me, as she reads another boring poem. Relief washes over me, but I’m desperate to stay alert, so I do the only thing I know will keep me awake. I sneak another peek at the pretty girl again, her red curls waving around her freckled face. I frown. I think she’s much older than the rest of us. Maybe twelve or thirteen when the rest of us are ten and eleven. I wonder why she’s here. Did she fail a couple of grades? I wonder if her dad’s mean, too, and that messed up her schoolwork like it has mine.
“Henry Oliver!”
My name is followed by the slamming of a ruler on my desk.
I jump, and my heart punches at my chest, the way it does when my dad yells real loud. Gasping, I look up to find the sister standing above me. “Sister Marion.”
“Good to know you’ve at least learned my name this year, Henry,” she replies.
The entire room erupts in laughter, and tears of embarrassment pinch my eyes, but I can’t cry. My father says that crying is for babies. And babies get beat up.
“Enough!” Sister Marion snaps at the room. The students zip their lips, and all the sound in the room is sucked away, but everyone is looking at me, including Sister Marion. “We are not here to watch pretty little girls, Henry,” she reprimands. “Yes, I saw you staring at the new girl.”
Oh God, oh God. Please no. Please no. Don’t do this to me. I fight the urge to stand up and run away.
“We are not here for that,” Sister Marion adds. “We are here to honor God with our minds. Do you understand, young man?”
“Yes, Sister Marion,” I agree quickly.
“Then make our Father proud,” she says. “You will be the first to read a poem today.”
I quake inside. Oh no. “You’re going to talk to my father, Sister Marion?”
“Our Father, the Lord Jesus. You will talk to him now. Get up and follow me.” She turns on her heel and marches to the front of the room, waiting for me from behind her desk.
All eyes are on me and, afraid of losing my glasses, I shove them up my nose, my stupid hand trembling as I do. The kids saw. Of course, they saw. They’re all watching me, waiting to laugh at me again. Forcing my legs to work, I stand because I have no choice, curling my fingers into my sweaty palms.
Two steps forward. Three. I’m doing good. Yes. Four. I stumble on my unlaced shoe, falling forward, landing with a hard smack of my bare knees on the concrete floor. The room erupts into laughter once more and I imagine quicksand, like I saw in some movie the other day, sucking me under. That would be good, really good, right now. I straighten and my ears are ringing, the room fading in and out. I can barely make out the ruler hitting Sister Marion’s desk again. Every step I take shuffles heavily, like when I walk through the water in the river down by my house after Dad comes home, shouting and drinking his beer.
I’m almost to the front when Sister Marion loses patience with me like my dad does all the time. “Come now, son.” She grabs my hand and yanks me forward, placing me in front of the class and shoving a book into my hand. “Read,” she commands. “Give us the title and the author.”
I can feel my cheeks reddening, blowing up like apples the way they do when I’m upset. Next, the smear of red will spread to my neck and then I’ll look stupid. I need to get this over with now.
I clear my throat. “‘Dreams’ by Langston Hughes,” I announce, and then I glance at Sister Marion to make sure I’ve said the name correctly. She gives a sharp nod of approval.
Someone snickers and a boy from the back of the class shouts out, “He’s too fat for his uniform and he looks like he’s going to poop his pants.”
“I’m not too fat,” I shout back. “It’s too small because my mom and dad can’t afford a new one.”
“Enough, all of you!” Sister Marion snaps and waves her ruler across the room. “One more outburst from anyone and everyone in this room will write one hundred Hail Marys after the bell.” She looks at me. “Continue.”
I suck in air and force it out, promising myself I will not cry. I’m not fat. I’m not fat. I look at the book again, ready to do anything that lets me just sit back down. I start reading, and I can’t dare say something stupid. I speak slowly, taking my time:
“Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go…”
I can’t read a couple of the other words. They’re too big for me, so I just stop there.
“Very good,” Sister Marion says, clapping. I puff out a breath of relief. She didn’t even notice I didn’t read all of the poem. “Class, clap with me!”
Everyone claps but the redheaded girl and a boy in the back that I don’t think I know. He’s new, too.
The sister takes the book from me. “Return to your seat,” she orders.
; I want to run back to my seat, but I’m afraid of falling again. I walk. I walk really carefully, and when I slink back into my seat, I slide down low, snickers erupting behind me. My heart is pounding in my ears, my palms sweaty again. I’m going to get beat up after class, just like two weeks ago when that boy, Nicholas, took my lunch. Dad was mad, too. He said I was a pussy. I know that’s bad, because mom screamed at him and told him not to call me that.
Sister Marion begins reading another poem, and I plot my escape after class. One minute before the bell is to ring, my hand goes to my book bag, and when finally the bell blasts above, I launch into action. I dart for the door, determined to get out of here and just go home, hoping my dad won’t be drinking beer tonight. I hate it when he drinks beer. I push through the other kids to the door, and I ignore the hall monitors screaming for me to “Walk, don’t run.”
I explode out of the school, running with all my might, looking over my shoulder, panting and wheezing by the time I reach the big tree past the playground. I drop my book bag and sit down. I made it. I’m not a pussy today.
“Hello, Henry.”
I blink and Nicholas is standing above me, and five other kids all appear from behind the tree. I start to wheeze. I can’t breathe. Nicholas shoves his foot on my chest and now I can’t catch my breath at all. “Henry here almost pooped his pants today. Henry is a poo-poo pants.”
The kids start singing that. “Henry is a poo-poo pants. Henry is a poo-poo pants.”
“Read us some more poetry,” Nicholas says, and he holds up a book. “I took Sister Marion’s poetry book just for you.” He opens it and shoves it into my lap. “Read.”
Tears start streaming down my cheeks. Oh God, not the tears. “I—I—I can’t,” I sob.
“You can,” Nicholas says, and he yanks me off the tree, flattening me on my back. Then he’s sitting on my chest, holding the book, reading it for me. “Now you,” he says, shoving it against my face. I suck in air, but it won’t come. I start to push against the book and Nicholas. But suddenly, he’s gone. I scramble back and onto my hands to find the new boy punching Nicholas. Now Nicholas is on his back and the new boy is on top of him. I can’t watch. I scramble to my feet and take off running.
Bloody Vows Page 16