Category Archives: Fiction

Hot Blacktop Ch. 6 – Test Ride – Part I

One week turned into two. Sienna had tried Saint’s patience, but he’d worn her down, with phone calls and small hand written notes that he’d had delivered with a single Gerber daisy every other day. The instant connection they’d made was something Saint couldn’t ignore. He didn’t want to seem too eager though, or…stalkerish. He laughed behind the welder’s mask. Saint had been just about to head over to Twisted Metal and bodily remove her from her store to follow through on his promise and take her for a ride on his bike. He shook his head as he brought the blowtorch down on the tank he’d decided to reshape.

Saint finished the final weld and flipped the mask back and smiled. He was in the middle of a rebuild/redesign of a 1982 Yamaha XS650 Board Track Racer. It was coming along and he couldn’t wait to put it through its paces once it was completed. It was more for the joy of taking something old and making it new more than anything, but he’d had a mind to get his hands on one and redesign it to his own style. Not part of the Paulson business, he’d done a few custom builds for friends. He enjoyed it, but Saint wasn’t going to make it a habit. Teaching people to race to the best of their ability was the primary business model at Paulson Raceway and it started with the kids.

He looked at the clock on the wall. Even though he took meticulous to the next level when it came to the tools in his shop, he’d done a lot that day and lost track of time. Sienna would be here soon. The tools needed to be cleaned and put away.

Saint saw a flash of faded blue near the garage entrance. Danny was back. He looked to be about eight, but he could be wrong. His mind told him the boy wouldn’t be that young here on his own. The only reason he knew the kids name was the other boys he taught to race knew him from school. They didn’t know how old he was, he never spoke up much, and was in the special education classes. He was confused by that though, because Danny was observant, but always hung back, watching the Paulson mechanics, or in the grandstand leaned over the rail on tip toes to catch every word Saint spoke as he taught class at the starting line.

Where the hell were his parents? Saint’s lips pinched as he worried about Danny’s home life.

The kid was too skinny. He’d seen enough bruises on the boy to know that someone had clocked him a time…or three. Saint squeezed the torch until his knuckles turned white, the anger hot as the flame it produced. He slowly got up. His knee cracked and he grunted. Startled by his movement, Danny stepped back. Saint tried to relax, tools banged and metal clanked and Saint noticed the boy would jerk every time the tools hit something. As not to frighten Danny he carefully put things away letting him settle. “Hey kid, you have somewhere you’re supposed to be?”

The boy lifted his chin and crossed his arms in front of his chest then put them down by his sides. “No. I got nowhere,” he snapped, but then quickly looked away, his fingers curled into fists again by his side. Saint noticed a slight tremor in those limbs. The intensity in Danny’s words belied his body language. Brows turned down, Saint stayed mute and his eyes never wavered from the mysterious boy. The kid looked back and away again. What was he so scared of? Was he hiding from someone? Saint put his worry off for now, but he’d definitely revisit it later. If he could help in any way, he would.

“Can you get me that clean rag over on the bench there.” Saint pointed.

Danny’s arms fell to his sides and he looked over to the bench and back to Saint like his request was some kind of trick. He finally moved, stiff and disjointed. Saint frowned. His concern spiked again. Saint observed the boy with a more acute glance. He hadn’t noticed Danny’s converse high-tops had worn holes in the toes, pretty pathetic against the flashy stained concrete of the garage floor. His shirt and jeans were worn through in some places, his hair was matted and dirty just like the rest of him. Did the kid even shower? He should be wearing a coat too; the weather was slowly cooling toward late fall. When Danny turned he winced and clenched his teeth.

“Thanks,” Saint said once the kid approached. “You okay Danny?”

“Fine.” He scuffed his Converse across a large red rust stain on the floor.

“What are you up to today, kid?”

“Nothin’,” Danny snapped, his hands jammed into his pockets as his eyes narrowed.

Saint didn’t think he’d heard the boy speak more than a few words since he started hanging around. This was the longest conversation they’d had to date.

Saint wiped the sweat off his brow and moved toward his bench. The sander went back on the designated shelf and he hooked the blowtorch up just above where the tank sat. He put the smaller tools in drawers and on hooks sticking out of the pegboard that covered almost an entire wall. “Well you’re doing something now,” he said over his shoulder. “How about I take you for a ride around the track. Sound good to you?”

When he looked back again Danny’s face blossomed with emotion. His eyes lit up and his mouth hung open for a moment. But in an instant his expression changed back again and he looked away.

“Really?” he whispered and then looked back up. Danny’s eyes met his, he tilted his head, curiosity and surprise obvious, but then his face scrunched up, his lip curled, and his shoulders fell, a gamut of emotion. “Whatever.” Danny shrugged.

Saint’s mind skipped between scenarios of why Danny was constantly unsettled. His anger flashed white hot again as he thought of possible worst case scenario. His vision blurred as he stared at the monotonous peg board. Saint hated abusers. But what made this particular boy cut a notch into Saint’s heart? He didn’t know. He turned back to respond.

Saint blew out a breath and tried to find calm. “Yeah kid. You up for it?”

Danny was quiet as his eyes locked on Saint. He searched for something.

Saint was about to say it was cool if he didn’t want to go.

“Yeah!” The break that cracked his voice caused heat to flush his cheeks. He looked back at the ground. “Yes sir.”

Saint’s head jerked back by the kid’s newfound manners. Emotionally this kid was all over the place. He would have to ferret out where all these little nuances came from if Danny kept coming around.

“Saint, will do.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Saint.”

Saint chuckled. “All right then, let’s go pick out a bike.”

“Wow!”

Saint walked over to the garage door on the opposite wall of the lift and bench. This door slid open instead of retracting overhead. He’d had it framed in solid teak with antique iron door pulls and hardware. He pulled it open with a soft hiss. The smoky opaque glass hid what lie on the other side. This garage had been the closest to the office and he’d turned it into one for his own projects. A private and off-limits space.

Danny gasped. “Oh boy!” The kid practically bounced off his feet. Saint tried not to smile. He didn’t want to embarrass Danny.

Saint dared to touch the kid’s shoulder to guide him to the street bike he wanted to ride. Danny shrugged him off but didn’t move away. Good, Saint thought, he’d seen him often enough now that Danny trusted him more. Not quite upon the bike he wanted to ride, Saint stopped in front of the Yamaha YZR M1.

“Holy shit!” Danny sputtered.

Saint looked down at the kid and let the swear word go. The smile he saw was something he didn’t think the kid had in him. He stayed silent and let Danny shuffle closer. The boy reached out but pulled back like fire had licked his fingers, afraid, Saint guessed. “Go ahead.” Danny reached out tentatively.

“This is like Valentino Rossi’s. Isn’t it?” His eyes were wide and his smile spread huge. “Are we going to ride this one?”

“No.”

“Why not?” He paused, thoughtful. “You’ll keep me safe,” Danny said making it a statement not a question.

Saint’s brows went down and his gut twisted, thinking about his sister. No, maybe it was why he felt more for Danny then he should. He shook it off. His sister wasn’t a part of this. Danny trusted him to some level, at least where riding was concerned.

“You’ll be safe.” He didn’t say more, just let Danny have his space to think over the words. “We’ll take the Yamaha YZR M1 replica. It has a rocker seat, so we’re good to go.” He walked through an adjacent door to the space that held a lot of riding supplies, grabbed a helmet that was lined up with several others, the wall looking more like an art installation than rows of riding gear. He called over his shoulder when he reached the wall, “What size hat you wear?” Danny didn’t answer, just stood in the doorway. Saint pulled down what he thought was the appropriate size. “Here. Try this on.” He had several kids’ helmets, for kids from ages seven and up, prepared for anything. Many of the families that were involved in racing—he taught many younger kids—brought friends. Of course, Saint never wanted to be without gear to keep the kids safe, so he always had backups. At the last second Saint grabbed a leather jacket. Danny would become cold only after a few seconds on the bike.

Once Danny had the helmet on, which made him look even smaller, and jacket, Saint hit the button and opened his private garage, grabbed his leather jacket and helmet. When he was as safe as the kid, he rolled out the M1.

Saint looked to Danny who fidgeted. “You ready?” Danny nodded with a jerk of his head.

“Alright, once I’m on, hold my shoulders, put your right foot on the pedal and swing your left leg over, sit, then wrap your arms around my waste and hold on tight to the second belt that I put on. Got it?”

Another nod.

“When we go into the turns, let the angle of the bike lead. When the bike leans, you lean.” He flicked Danny’s visor down. Saint got on and waited for Danny to get his nerve up. It didn’t take long. Danny was up and situated on the small seat within seconds.

“Hands around my waist, kid.”

“Okay,” he yelled through the helmet.

Saint revved the bike a couple times and took off light and easy, the kid’s helmet banging into Saint’s back a few times before he got used to the up-shifts.

He took his time maneuvering to the main track. Right before he opened it up he yelled “Here we go!” Danny’s grip was like a vice around Saint’s waste, his little fingers hooked into the second belt. Saint smiled. He took it up a notch and heard Danny’s whoop of joy, the one riders get that comes from cranking up the throttle, the heart pounding acceleration a rider can’t live without. Saint wouldn’t get anywhere near his top speed with Danny on the back of the bike, but he pushed it for the kid.

Saint only had time for a few laps around the track before Sienna would arrive, and sure enough as he rounded the final turn after the fourth lap he saw her head lights maneuver into the lot near his office. He came to a stop outside the garage.

Even before his helmet came off, Danny’s words came out a mile a minute. “That was awesome! Those turns were crazy. Can we go again? Can we go faster?”

Saint would have answered, but was distracted when Sienna came around the corner to greet him.

“Hi,” she said. Her eyes snapped down to Danny. In the next instant Danny jumps off the bike, but he’s behind Saint when Sienna appears. Danny clung to his back, his little hands gripping his leather jacket tight, his forehead angled into Saint’s spine.

The kid trembled. Saint could feel it. What the hell!

Got Plot? Or Not

SteppingStones245Like the stepping stones in the serene Japanese Garden at the Chicago Botanic Garden, storytellers recount tales moving through a series of classic plot points. The concept of plot stretches back to the earliest recorded histories: cave drawings, tribal tattoos, epic poems, plays and theatre. Plot is the weave of our history, ancestry, immigration and patriotism.

Some stepping stones, however, are not for walking. In the Japanese garden, only mental journeys travel from one side of this path to the other. The meticulously raked gravel rests undisturbed and in perfect harmony with the stones. No haphazard or careless footprints occur. There is no plot, only contemplation.

Somewhere, someone will accomplish great things. Books will capture the details, and schoolchildren will memorize the facts. Movies will be made. Who will be the hero of these next quests? You? Me? Unfortunately, the only quest in my future is surviving the commute, managing my “to do” lists and shuttling the offspring to cross country meets and back to college. Hence, for most, modern existence is one plotless mess.

Is that bad? In 1939, James Thurber captured the desire for greatness and the restlessness of our ego in “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.” In the original short story, Mrs. Mitty instructs Walter to run two errands while she visits the hairdresser. Several fantastic dream sequences distract Walter, but he gets his overshoes and puppy biscuits. Walter is a sympathetic character, and the story is one hundred percent relatable. It’s “plotless us” in a six page story.

For fun, let’s forget everything we know about story structure and embrace the plotless story. Our story is big on character and less so on action. The story demonstrates a goal and a global theme. Plotless fiction progresses by conveying meaning, relationship, or an interpretation of memory. Unlike a story with continued rising action, this story structure waffles along the time horizon with possibly, if we’re lucky, some aspect of emotional change or growth. While fiction debates the power of the prose verses the strength of the story, film balances less plot, narrative, with more imagery and character.

For example, the film, Beasts of the Southern Wild, is essentially plotless, but excels in imagery, unique characters and powerful acting.  The independent five year old protagonist, Hushpuppy, fails to achieve, accomplish, deliver or find anything. Instead, the film is a storytelling of her unique talents of listening to heartbeats, her strength to persevere and her disconnect between reality and her fictional southern Louisiana bayou called “The Bathtub.” The film begins with a folk tale about the Aurochs, feared and legendary for eating cave babies. In a perfect example of storytelling, the teacher points to her arm bearing a tattooed image of the beast. Conflict ensues with nature (storm), man (Wink, people behind the levee and the authorities) and self (the Aurochs). Yet, the film does not have a climax. It is more a “day in the life of Hushpuppy.” In those memorable days, a storm ruins her home, and her father, Wink, faces the ultimate life battle.

Popular culture perpetuates plotless story arcs. For example, the Moth Radio Hour on National Public Radio encourages storytellers to find a story where they have a stake. No stake means no story. These five minute true stories make the audiences laugh, cry and sigh. Many of the stories are meandering slices of life. For example, let’s examine these two moth stories: (Shakoor, 2012; Lane, 2014).

Satori Shakoor (“Point of No Return”) explores inner conflict in her desperate job search. I’ve listened to this story many times and never tire of the humor and fantastic delivery, but the story arc is plotless. She has a problem. The problem is not resolved.

As a native Texan, I would like to adopt Faye Lane and her adorable drawl into my family. When Faye tells of her mother’s beauty shop, I wonder if it could be the neighborhood beauty shop that operated across the street from my grandmother’s house in Temple, Texas. Faye Lane (“Fireworks From Above”) has strong thematic material in her mission to be kind and a goal, to bring individuals together through an emotional experience. Her flight attendant experiences, which individualize the group, are an emotional jackpot but not a plot.

Moth storytellers extract the emotional core of a story. Emotion is a highly volatile element on the storytelling periodic table. It cannot be sustained for long periods, which is why, plotlessness is successful on a small scale. A short story, a live storytelling and even an artsy film are great outlets for the plotless.

So, I Asked Alice…

Here comes fall. What an appropriate name for a season in which the leaves drop as fast as the temperature.

AliceUnderground1My blog last month talked about possibly using crowdsourcing to publish Broken String, my new novel that is now in final edit. I received several comments at Deadwood Writers Voices and thanks to all of you for that.

To better understand Kickstarter.com, I decided to “back” one of their book projects. To get a feel for how this might work, I backed the 150th Anniversary Edition of Alice’s Adventures Under Ground. It is being produced in Australia under License from the British Library.

This is Charles Dodgson’s original version of Alice and it includes the 37 illustration Dodgson did himself, with the story in his own hand writing. Lewis Carroll was a pseudonym for Charles Lutwidge Dodgson. His penname was derived from the Latin spelling of his first and middle names, and then reversed and translated back to English.

This 150th Anniversary Edition is leather bound with gold embossed titles with black and white and two-color illustrations. I’m looking forward to seeing it on my classics shelf, after I’ve read it.

AliceUnderground3If you are not familiar with the backstory of Alice, Dodgson originally wrote it as a short story for his College Dean’s daughter. After hearing him tell the tale, twice, during two rowboat trips, Alice Liddell, asked him to write it down for her. He wrote it out in long hand and did his own illustrations, then he had it bound together and gave it to Alice as a Christmas present in 1864. He was encouraged to have it printed for sale and so expanded the story from 15,000 words to 27,500, and brought in renowned illustrator John Tenniel to do better illustrations. He self-published the story, retitled, one year later. That 1865 typeset version is now known as the first edition of Alice in Wonderland. One hundred fifty years later, we have a finely crafted tome of the author’s original words and illustrations, as he presented it to twelve-year-old Alice.

AliceUnderground2Participating with this project has given me insight in how a successful program works. Their costs were projected at AU$20,000 and they raised over AU$109,000 from 1,081 backers worldwide. During the six weeks, I received several emails with updates on the project, complete with pictures of set pages and workers busy on the production. It was a very easy process and it gives me some hope.

Now, I’m not the British Library and my story hasn’t been loved by children of all ages for 150 years, but seeing how they organized the campaign and how they grew interest from under 100 the first week to over 1,000 backers by the end is encouraging.

For my project, I’ll first need to gather a core group of readers, friends and fellow writers to back the project once the campaign does start. Kind of give it a push out the door. Getting that core group to reach out to the friends they know who might enjoy a suspense novel like Broken String is critical to the overall success. Backers of my project would receive deep discounts on signed, first editions of the printed book and first day delivery of the e-book, much like the Alice project offers. I would like to offer versions in limited edition, hard cover, trade paperback and e-book to have the widest price range for backers.

It’s still just an idea germinating in my head. I’ll keep you updated, but I would love to hear from more of you as far as what you think of this idea. What kind of a discount would entice you? Or, what else would be enticing enough for you to back a project like this?

Wanted: Graphic designer for the cover art. Can you recommend anyone?

Diary of a Binge Reader

Donna Tartt’s, The Goldfinch, hijacked my social life for the past two weeks. And consequently, my life as a binge reader emerged once again.

For months, I can exist perfectly content on my diet of short stories. Then, the unwieldy novel finds me unsatisfied in my 5000 word count stories, lures me to a world of plots with multiple characters and offers a new captivating world to enjoy and forget the everyday mundane. The process begins innocently enough — an evening hour in a big chair with my feet up, a chapter instead of dinner, an alarm set earlier to read before breakfast, and eventually the pages of a 784 page tome reluctantly parted across my sleeping self — until in the middle of the night, the book falls, thudding loudly against the floor, startling the dog who barks and wakes the household and next door neighbors.

How does this happen to me? I confess a predilection for Donna Tartt’s brand of storytelling. Is Tartt’s magic the plot or the theme? A diagram from the NY Book Editors shows themes of prize winning novels in 2014. The Goldfinch won the 2014 Pulitzer Prize and contains many of the plot lines of prize-winning novels: unlikely friendships, betrayal, terrorism, death, theft, school days, running away, criminal gangs, love and suicide. Other winning plots include less appealing topics: cannibalism, East London, homicidal cowboy brothers, an escaped tiger, horniness, jazz, nanny trust issues, a mysterious letter, Totalitarian Bucharest, and war. As to plot, Tartt chose well except I am intrigued by the cowboy idea.

Screenshot 2015-10-02 23.18.45The NY Book Editors post also includes speculation on what makes an interesting story. The answer is a good story arc. Larry Brooks’ Story Engineering also covers these topics along with a bevy of books about story structure. In “Writing Fiction Like a Pro” by Steve Alcorn, the classic three act structure includes nine dramatic elements. For the elements, I included a sketch by fellow writer and classmate, Mame Zirro.

Act 1 introduces the characters, the setting and the story. Through The Goldfinch’s adolescent narrator, Theo, the reader meets his mother and learns the critical backstory. The trigger is the plot point that propels the protagonist into Act 2. It is also called the inciting incident or the door that the character passes through that cannot be undone. Theo’s plot point occurs after the museum explosion. Surrounded by debris, Theo meets Welty and follows his advice. With his mother missing and his theft of a famous masterpiece, he cannot go back to his former life.

Act 2 is the middle of the story. Our boy, Theo, is in crisis – dead mother, abandoned by his father, nowhere to go, no one to turn to, stolen painting, and dead man’s ring. Imagine a horizontal graph of time. After the beginning first act, the middle second act extends for the bulk of the novel. In the case of The Goldfinch, Act 2 is 400-500 pages of Theo’s escalating struggles with his friend’s family, his father’s return, his misadventures in Las Vegas and his betrayal of father-figure Hobart.

Act 2 ends with another plot point. This time the story veers in an unexpected direction. Act 3 is the shortest in duration and the highest point of tension. While Act 2 concentrated on the emotional story and struggles of the protagonist, Act 3 is all plot. Theo is older and burdened by his theft and loss of the famous Fabritius painting of The Goldfinch. His epiphany guides him to a new course of action, a solution for the greater good and his final plan to save the painting, actually several plans, since nothing in a Tartt novel will work the first time. The climax ends where the story began in Amsterdam. I will leave the ending untold for future readers to enjoy. Suffice it to say, Act 3 resolves Theo’s many problems.

The three act structure probably has as many critics as Donna Tartt. Some argue for more than three acts and others for less, such as the simplicity of creating a problem and resolving a problem. The internet displays diagrams of pinch points and new takes on structure with grids, circles and even circus tents. As for Donna Tartt, even the literary crowd disagrees on whether this is a fabulous adult novel or a Harry Potter-esque children’s book. Reviews on Goodreads offer accounts of unfinished readings (no doubt from quitters, wimps and lightweights) in contrast to exhilarating comments about the plot and characters.

For this novel with a massive three act structure, my vote is yes. Read it. But don’t drop it on your foot. Don’t try to fit it in your backpack or purse. And don’t drop it in the middle of the night unless you want to risk a call to 911 from the neighbors.

Hot Blacktop – Ch. 3 – Saint

Stuart “Saint” Paulson looked down at Sienna, his brow furrowed, shoulders tense, his own headache inviting itself in.

“Stay.”

“I can’t do that,” he replied after a long pause. She didn’t respond. She’d fallen asleep. He sighed, went back to the bed, sat down and looked at the woman who had pulled at something deep inside that he’d forgotten. How to feel. Saint didn’t deserve to feel, not after what’d happened to his sister, Becky. Saint didn’t understand why he agreed to take Sienna home in the first place, let alone make sure he tucked her into bed. He couldn’t take care of his baby sister when she’d needed him the most, so why would he be able to take care of Sienna?

Saint’s head dropped down, chin to his chest, and his self-hatred sliced deep with each breathe. He gazed at Sienna, swept the hair out of her face, and skimmed his finger down to her chin, he couldn’t stop and indulged in the feel of her, her hair, her skin. She wasn’t what he would call a stunner. Sienna was…unique. Right now, her skin was pale and drawn because of the headache. Once she was better, he bet it would be flawless and pink as pale porcelain. Her jaw angled sharply down from high cheekbones, almost to a diamond shape at her chin. What softened her face was the subtle slope of her nose, and her big eyes lined with thick lashes that seemed to go on forever. He noticed she was tall when he held her on the dance floor, maybe six foot two instead of his six foot four. Sienna had fit him snug and in all the right places. She was muscular too, but in his arms, she felt soft and pliable. The way her firm breasts pressed into the planes of his chest as he helped her from his truck and then carried her into the house was like a shot of adrenaline. Saint wanted to take full advantage of all her curves. He jerked his hand away and balled it into a fist.

Saint got up, adjusted himself and left the room. Giggles caught his attention at the end of the hall. He took the stairs faster. At the front door, ready to leave, he stopped and looked up.

“Dammit!” Saint turned around and went to the couch that looked uncomfortably short. His ass met the cushion and his hands went to his leather boots, out of habit, he unlaced the right one first and then the left, yanked them off, and tucked the laces in at the top and set them side by side next to a round coffee table with a glass top. He saw that Sienna was definitely a Pilates fan by the large pile of magazines with the title, whatever that was, along with a taste for southern cooking. He ran his fingers through his hair and kicked back on the couch to stare at the ceiling. He extended his legs, his feet settled on an armrest, and he leaned back onto a flower-covered pillow that felt more like burlap than Goose Down.

As he stares into the dark, Saint tried to convince both sides of his brain to refrain from stupidity. But one side conjured Sienna naked in positions that would make Kama Sutra experts blush. The other side said to get the hell away from her before Saint turned to sinner. Few knew that side of him. Close friends knew his anger simmered just below the surface and he was very controlled in all things. Saint didn’t need to get involved with anyone. The sinner didn’t deserve a good girl like Sienna. He was selfish and angry. She didn’t deserve his darkness, not after the little bit he’d heard about the dick she’d been dating. But that was all he had to give.

Saint sat up and started to reach for his boots but changed his mind and lay back down. Anger started to rise, his guilt locked in tandem with it, as it pulsed in his veins. More laughter floated down the stairs. He crossed his arms and glared up at the noise Christoph caused Megan to make.

His jaw clenched in time with his fists as he tried to breathe through the build-up of tension. Just looking into Sienna’s pain filled eyes brought the guilt and regret to the surface, so similar to the final look on his sister’s face when he’d slammed the door. He didn’t need a reminder of what he buried a long time ago.

He looked at his watch. It was only one-thirty. His mind raced around his day, and he tried to forget about Sienna, not to look too closely at his sudden need to know she was okay. He told himself he would sleep and then make sure she had everything she needed in the morning. Then he would get to the shop so he could work on the bike he’d started to build, that’s all he needed. It was a good decision. He rubbed his face hard, and dug his fingers in as he shifted his bum knee on the couch.

Earlier that morning he’d hosted a slew of manufacturing reps at the track, Paulson Raceway. Several came out to scout talent that he’d been training for this year’s AMA Moto1 and Moto2 Series. The first race was only three weeks away and he had to trim his stable to four racers and two reserves. He yawned. A lot of his kids were going to be disappointed. He yawned again.  Sleep finally tugged him under only to suck him into a nightmare.

“I need some money,” his sister Becky said when he opened his door. Her rancid breath came in heavy gusts. She looked behind her and wobbled reaching out to grab onto something. He stepped back on his crutches so she wouldn’t touch him.

Her body listed the other way as her hand pushed off from the doorframe and he still didn’t help. She continued to sway back and forth.

“I need money.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” His knuckles mottled white with the amount of pressure he exerted on the handles of the damned crutches. He wanted to pummel his sister where she stood for what she’d done. “You’re not getting anything from me. Not anymore.”

She started to itch at her arms, her nails dug in where he could see track marks. “Please, Saint. I need…”

“Don’t fucking call me that!” Flames practically fired from his mouth with the amount of anger shooting off him. “You lost that right when you took my one chance away from me. I tried to help you. I would have done anything for you. But you decided your next fix was more important than me.” He was breathing like a bull ready to stampede. “You only get one chance. One. To make it in this life, Sister. That’s it! That’s all anyone gets. You took away mine!” He slams the door in her face.

Saint’s eyes sprang open and he gasped for air.

He sat up and wiped the sweat from his brow. His hands shook. He closed his eyes but could not get that last image of Becky out of his head. She died that night, and he could have prevented it. After a few minutes, he could breathe again, but he was afraid to try to go back to sleep. Yeah, in a couple hours, he told himself, he would make sure Sienna was okay. Then he would get out of her life.

Saint was about to close his eyes but the sound of a car engine alerted him to trouble. It was too early. He reached for his boots.