Prologue
1950s, Central Florida
The
slap was hard and almost knocked him to his knees. They wobbled for a
split second, but he managed to regain his stance and glared hard at
his father.
“Your
mother said you missed the bus and had to hitchhike home.”
He
tasted blood in his mouth where the slap had caused him to bite the
inside of his cheek. He knew his next comment would bring another
blow. He braced himself.
“Ida
is not my mother.”
Another
hard one, this time to the side of his head, which caused a ringing
in his ear. This was nothing. He’d endured worse. He didn’t know
why it bothered his father so much when he said this. Ida herself was
the first to remind him that she wasn’t his mother.
“Don’t
fuck with me, boy. Where were you?”
“It’s
the last day of school. Some of us had to stay after to help the
teachers clean out their classrooms.” This was a lie. He’d gotten
in a fight that day. He’d snapped when a snooty rich kid made fun
of him.
The
kid was new and had only been enrolled for the last two weeks before
school let out for the summer. He was too new to have been warned.
The new kid had asked him in the boy’s room if he picked his
clothes out of the garbage can that morning. He’d left the idiot
dazed and bloody on the bathroom floor, then calmly washed his hands
and went back to his classroom. He’d looked at the big clock over
the blackboard. Less than fifteen minutes until summer started.
Hopefully, his dad wouldn’t work him to death and he’d be able to
keep an eye out for her. For Ruthie.
He’d
been on the loaded school bus, ready to pull away, when the driver
reached over and opened the door. The substitute principal stood at
the front of the bus and quietly perused the group of kids. When he
saw who he was looking for, he pointed and indicated with his finger.
Follow.
Damn.
He’d almost made it out of there.
They
never discussed the alleged crime as they made their way back into
the school and to the principal’s office. He simply bent over the
desk and endured the paddling. It wasn’t so bad and didn’t even
compare to the beatings he’d received from his father. Beatings
that had left permanent scars on his back and other parts of his
body. He may have been young, but he knew this fucker, a temporary
replacement for the school’s regular principal who was out
recovering from surgery, was enjoying this way too much. Would
probably lock his office door and jerk off after sending him to find
his own way home. Fucking pervert. The world was foul.
So,
he’d hitchhiked and ended up walking the last seven miles to get
home and now stood there, facing the wrath of his father. His
stepmother stood off to the side leaning back against the kitchen
counter, her arms crossed and a smug look on her face. A hot, stale
breeze floated in from the window above the kitchen sink.
His
stepmother. Ida. He’d hated her for as long as he could remember.
He had no memory of his real mother. He was told she’d died in this
house giving birth to him. It wasn’t really a house so much as a
shack in the middle of nowhere. A two-bedroom hovel situated on
several acres surrounded by orange groves as far as the eye could
see. His father was a skilled carpenter by trade, but for reasons
that made no sense to his son, he preferred this destitute existence.
He could have made a decent living, could’ve lived in a home not so
far from the modern world—as modern as you could get in the
fifties. He chose instead to live in a dilapidated old house that had
been passed down for generations. He never once used his carpentry
skills to make it into a real home. He’d slap some tar on the roof
if it leaked or replace a busted pipe, but other than some hodgepodge
repairs, he never lifted a finger. It was crumbling around them.
Maybe
it was because his father considered himself the king of his castle
and he could hold reign over his unworthy subjects. Maybe the
brutality he unleashed here made him feel an iota of power that he
didn’t feel in the real world. Maybe knowing that he could provide
a nice and safe environment, but purposely chose not to, was part of
the psychotic seed that had been implanted in his personality. He
wasn’t just a bad man. He was worse than that. He prided himself
too much on withholding any good he could do for his family.
That
made him pure evil in his son’s eyes.
Before
she’d married, Ida had worked as a maid for a wealthy family in
West Palm Beach. His father had met up with a couple of other
laborers to make the long drive down to a mansion situated on the
beach to spend a few days doing carpentry work and repairs. He
returned with his three comrades and a glowing Ida, who had finally,
finally snagged herself a man. She had become tired of being
someone’s maid, and when a hardworking, widowed family man came
along and showed a hint of interest, she jumped. Unfortunately for
her, she jumped too quickly and without hesitation. She hadn’t
realized then that she was jumping from the frying pan right into a
fire that was even worse. Overnight, she went from being a lonely,
overworked maid to a lonely, overworked, and abused housewife.
No,
he had no good memories of Ida. Maybe she’d started out trying to
do her best. To make their shack a home, to be a mother to her new
husband’s young son. But if she had started out that way, he had no
recollection of it. Maybe she wasn’t always the horrible person he
knew. Maybe his father made her that way. It didn’t matter. He
hated her no matter what. He hated her because he knew what she was
doing to her own daughter. His half-sister, Ruthie.
Ruthie
was a sweet and trusting child who’d captured his heart since the
day she was born. She was a happy little girl who was always smiling
in spite of the mistreatment her mother inflicted. He spent every
second that he wasn’t at school or working caring for his little
sister. He adored her and did everything he could to protect her from
his parents, especially Ida. He made sure she ate when she was sent
to bed without supper. He made sure she was bathed. He couldn’t do
it every day, but he did it as often as he could manage. He erased
evidence of her bathroom accidents, making sure to wash out her
clothes in the creek and let them dry before returning them to her
dresser. He wiped away her tears and kissed her boo-boos.
Unfortunately,
there were too many even for him to kiss away.
Every
night she’d say, “Brother, tell me a story. Tell me a happy story
where things don’t hurt and everybody is nice.”
He
would pull her close in the bed they’d shared ever since she was a
baby and, ignoring the stench of their unwashed bodies, he would make
up happy stories to tell her. Anything to make her forget, just for a
little while. They would watch the stars from their bedroom window
and sometimes he‘d even use them in his stories.
“See
the brightest star, Ruthie?” he’d tell her as they gazed out
their window. “That’s you. You’re the brightest, most beautiful
star in the sky.”
“Where
are you, Brother? Are you there, too?” she asked him once.
“I’ll
always be the one that’s closest to you.”
He
didn’t know if the stories he made up were happy ones. He didn’t
know what happiness was himself, so how could he tell a four-year
old? But he tried.
Once
in a while, after he was certain his father and Ida were asleep, he’d
go to the back screen door and let Razor in to sleep with them, too.
Razor was a big black Rottweiler that had wandered up to their house
one day and never left. His father refused to let the dog stay and
insisted he didn’t need another mouth to feed, that he’d shoot
the dog if it didn’t leave on its own. The dog was smart. Sensing
the father’s animosity, it would come around only at night and wait
for the handout left for him on the far side of the barn. His father
finally relented; he decided maybe the dog wasn’t so bad after all
when his barking woke them up one night to warn them that a wild
animal was trying to get into the chicken coop. The hen’s squawking
never reached their sleeping ears, but the stray dog’s barking and
pawing at their back door did. His father let Razor stay, but he had
to be kept outside.
Now,
the beating done for the day, his father stared at him for a few
seconds. Finally, he said, “Get your fucking chores started. Don’t
come back in until they’re all finished. You don’t get done
before supper and you don’t eat.”
The
boy didn’t need to glance at his stepmother to know she would
purposely serve a very early supper that day. He headed out the back
screen door and let it slam behind him.
“C’mon,
Razor,” he said as he headed for the ramshackle barn.
It
was dark outside when he finally finished his chores. He found some
food he’d stashed in the barn and silently ate, sharing half with
his dog. After washing up in the rain barrel, he headed into the
house and crawled into bed with Ruthie, pulling her close. She
moaned.
“Brother
is here, Ruthie. Do you want a story?” He was exhausted, but
couldn’t fall asleep thinking he would let her down without a
story.
“My
stomach hurts,” she whispered.
“Do
you need me to take you to the bathroom?” he whispered back.
“No.
It’s not that kind of hurt.”
“What
kind of hurt is it? Are you hungry?
“Mommy
stepped on it.”
He
stiffened, then squeezed his eyes shut. He was glad she didn’t want
a happy story tonight because the only one he could think of was one
where he strangled Ida with his bare hands.
The
next day, he was walking back from the groves carrying the three
squirrels he’d killed with his slingshot. Ida could make a decent
stew out of these. He’d watched Ruthie that morning at the table as
she slowly ate her breakfast. She seemed okay, and he’d left to
hunt before she finished. He shouldered the squirrels and imagined
the look on Ruthie’s face when she saw what he’d caught.
That’s
when he heard it. A shotgun blast coming from the direction of the
house.
He’d
heard the shotgun before, when his father caught rare sight of a deer
or other animal that was either a predator or something that would
end up on their dinner table. But his gut told him this was
different.
He
broke into a full run, then came upon a scene that brought him up
short. He tensed as his mind started to grasp what had happened.
There,
right beside the clothesline. His father holding the shotgun. Ida
cradling a bleeding arm. Razor on his side and lying in a puddle of
blood.
And
Ruthie, on the ground and flat on her back, her arms at her sides.
Ruthie.
He
broke into another run.
“Your
fucking dog was attacking your sister, and when Ida tried to stop
him, he went after her, too,” his father said coldly, a finger
still resting on the trigger. “I had to kill him.”
Razor
attacked Ruthie and then Ida for trying to stop him? Impossible.
Razor would never hurt Ruthie.
Ida
held her arm up for him to see. She didn’t have to. He had already
seen it and there was no doubt it was a bite from Razor. More like a
mauling. Like he’d grabbed on and was wrestling with her.
He
dropped his dead squirrels and knelt at Ruthie’s side. And then he
knew for certain the concocted story wasn’t true. His sister was
lying on her back, her eyes closed. Soft blonde curls framed her
face. She looked more peaceful and beautiful than he had ever seen
her. A tiny smile curved her sweet, innocent mouth.
Of
course she was smiling. She had just escaped from hell.
He
knew she was dead. He also saw nothing on her body that indicated
Razor had attacked her.
They
were lying. But he’d already known that.
He
couldn’t stop himself. The words were out of his mouth before he
could think.
“Doesn’t
look like Razor attacked Ruthie. No bites or anything. Just Ida’s
bruises.”
The
blow was hard, but not unexpected.
“Get
the shovel,” his father ordered. “Pick a place way out past the
house and bury your sister. Don’t care what you do with your dog.
You can drag its lousy ass out to the groves if you want and give the
vultures some supper.” Scooping up the three squirrels that had
been dropped, he grabbed his wife by the uninjured arm. “You ain’t
hurt so bad you can’t make supper.”
As
he headed back to the house with Ida and the dead squirrels, he
yelled over his shoulder, “And when you’re done you get your
sorry ass back here and put out the rat poison like you were supposed
to do yesterday.”
He
stared after them as they made their way back to the house and tried
to imagine a world without Ruthie.
A
world without light.
Two
weeks later, he was sitting in the passenger seat of a strange man’s
car. The man had introduced himself when he picked up the young
hitchhiker, and he didn’t seem bothered by the fact that the boy
just stared at him and refused to say anything. The boy now turned to
gaze out the car window as he reflected on what he’d done.
He’d
buried his sister like his father had told him to, taken his shirt
off and covered her body with it before retrieving a shovel and
heading way out on their property where he dug one large grave.
Leaving
the shovel at the gravesite, he’d headed back to the house. He went
into the barn and retrieved the rat poison, shoved it down into his
pants.
He’d
gone into the house, noticed that Ida had cleaned up and was working
on their squirrel stew. He could tell by her movements she was in a
lot of pain. Razor had done a decent job of tearing up her arm. She
probably needed to go to the hospital, but his father would never
take her, nor would he allow her the use of their one vehicle. It
wasn’t at the house anyway. He must’ve gone somewhere.
It
was obvious what had happened. Ida had been giving Ruthie another
beating and Razor had stopped her. Unfortunately, Razor hadn’t
stopped her in time.
The
boy had no way of knowing that Ruthie had been slowly dying of
internal injuries sustained from her mother’s brutal beatings,
culminating in the final stomp to her tiny stomach the day before. He
was certain Ida had always inflicted her brutality on Ruthie inside
the house, where Razor wasn’t allowed. That day must’ve been
different. She was probably dragging a crying Ruthie out to the yard
to help her with some chore and started whaling on her when the
little girl wouldn’t, or most likely couldn’t, do as she was
told. There was no doubt Razor had been trying to defend Ruthie by
grabbing Ida by the right arm. Ida was right-handed.
Leaning
back from her spot at the stove, Ida looked out the back window and
spied the little girl’s body in the yard. She gave her stepson a
level look. “You’re not finished. What are you doing in here?”
Her
voice was steady and without emotion. She could’ve been asking him
if he’d fed the chickens or painted the fence. It revolted him to
think that this was how she thought of her daughter’s burial: a
chore. She was more of a monster than his own father. She had given
birth to Ruthie. She had shared the same body with her only child for
nine months. He didn’t know anything about mothering, but even he
could see how there could be, should be, a special bond between a
mother and her child.
Without
looking at her he answered. “Hole’s dug. Came back in for
something to wrap her in. Was gonna take my bed sheet.”
They’d
always shared a bed and it had only ever known one sheet. He would
use it to wrap Ruthie’s tiny body.
He
didn’t know what caused Ida to say the next thing. She countered
with an offer that surprised him but also provided him with an
opportunity.
“I
have something you can use. Got it as a going away gift from where I
used to work.”
She
took the big spoon she had been stirring with, tapped the side of the
pot and laid it down. Cradling her sore arm against her chest, she
headed back toward the bedroom she shared with her husband. He knew
her arm was hurting, knew it would take a few minutes to dig out
whatever it was that she was going to get. He could hear her clumsily
rustling around for something.
He
seized the chance to retrieve the poison from his pants and dump the
entire contents of the container in the stew. He hastily stirred it,
grateful that it seemed to quickly dissolve, and returned the spoon
back to its place. He was standing by the back door when she returned
with a blue piece of fabric draped over her good arm. He realized
that it was a bathrobe of some type. It was thin and he didn’t need
to be educated to know that it was high-quality and expensive. Going
away gift my ass, he frowned. She stole this.
She held it out to him while avoiding his penetrating green eyes.
They’d always unnerved her, at least that’s what he’d heard her
tell his father, and for a split second she seemed to hesitate, to
waver.
She
must have regained her bravado and, without waiting for him to take
the robe, snapped, “Wrap her in this.” She tossed it at him and
headed back over to the stove to stir her stew.
At
the freshly dug grave, he gently cloaked Ruthie’s little body in
his own shirt. “Brother is always with you, Ruthie,” he said
quietly. He then wrapped Razor in Ida’s expensive bathrobe and
snorted to himself as it occurred to him that even his dog was too
good for Ida’s supposed going away gift. He gently laid his little
sister in the very deep hole and placed Razor next to her.
“You
were a good boy, Razor. You did the right thing trying to protect
her. Now you can always protect her.”
He
knew he wasn’t going to mark her grave for anyone to know where she
was. Only him. He knew nobody would be looking anyway. It wasn’t
like she was going to be missed. Like him, she hadn’t been born in
a hospital. He doubted she even had a birth certificate. He wasn’t
sure if he had one himself, though he guessed there was one
somewhere, since he’d been enrolled in school. Do you need a birth
certificate to go to school, he wondered? He didn’t know.
He
stood over his sister’s grave and stared at the freshly compacted
earth. It was missing something. He wandered off and soon came back
with an oversized rock. The stone was heavy, massive really, and he
had exerted an enormous amount of energy to carry it to her
gravesite. He dropped it with a thud. He had chosen it because of its
size and unique shape. He would remember it.
Falling
to his knees, he began to weep. He never remembered crying even once
in his life. Not even as a child, enduring horrific abuse that was
tantamount to torture. He couldn’t comment on why his father hated
him. He couldn’t figure why his stepmother hated Ruthie. He didn’t
want to think about them, anyway. After he was finished, he’d never
think of them again.
A
low wail that didn’t sound human began to build, a cry that came
straight from the pit of his empty stomach and found its way up his
chest, through his throat and out his mouth, taking his soul and any
semblance of light with it. The light that had been Ruthie.
He
wasn’t sure how long he’d knelt sobbing at Ruthie and Razor’s
grave. His eyes stung and he had a combination of dry and wet snot
all over his bare arms as he tried to swipe away the grief. His sore
back eventually brought him out of his mourning, the pulse of the sun
reminding him of the lashes his father had inflicted a few nights
earlier. He was physically and mentally exhausted, but his job wasn’t
finished yet.
He
was worn out, but somehow he gathered the strength he needed and
headed out further to an even more remote location.
He
had one more grave to dig.
He
would bury them together, not for the same reason that he buried
Ruthie and Razor together: to offer protection and comfort to one
another. No, he dug one mass grave because they deserved to be dumped
like garbage.
And
that was exactly what he was going to do.
“Kid?
Kid, you need anything or have to use the bathroom?”
He’d
fallen asleep and jumped when he was touched. It took him a split
second to remember where he was. A car, now parked. The man who’d
picked him up was looking at him, waiting.
The
man nodded out the window. “I’m getting gas. You need to use the
john or something?”
“Where
are we?”
“Fort
Lauderdale. Getting some gas and heading to Miami.”
He
nodded his head, starting to sit up. He was sore. The last few days
had taken a toll on him physically and he was feeling it.
“Yeah,
I gotta go.”
He
went around the side of the little gas station and let himself into
the restroom. It smelled like crap but was surprisingly clean. His
mind wandered as he relieved himself, memories rolling over him.
He’d
returned to the house that night to find his father and Ida sitting
at the dinner table eating stew. He reached up on the shelf and took
down an old jelly jar, using the kitchen tap to fill it up. Leaning
back against the counter, he drank his water as he watched them eat
their dinner. Nobody bothered to offer him any. That was okay. He
would’ve refused it anyway.
“Tastes
like shit! How the fuck can you mess up squirrel stew?” When Ida
didn’t answer, his father backhanded her across the face.
Taking
his glass of water, he’d gone to his bedroom and shut the door
behind him. He laid down on the bed that he’d shared with Ruthie,
hugged the only pillow close to his chest, and fell immediately into
a dead sleep.
He
was awakened that night to the sound of violent vomiting and
retching. The next couple of days were a blur as he tried to pretend
to help his extremely sick parents. Keeping buckets by their bedside,
bringing them liquids to drink. Liquids he had continued lacing with
more poison from the barn.
He
remembered the instant his father realized what was happening. He was
trying to get out of his bed, insisting that his young son take him
and his wife to the hospital. The boy wasn’t old enough to have a
license, but he knew how to drive. He’d let his son drive their
beat-up old station wagon to haul things around the property.
“You’re
gonna drive us to the hospital, boy,” he said, voice laced with
pain.
“No,
I’m not.” He just looked at them, a small smile on his lips. “I’m
going to watch you both die a slow and painful death. I’m kind of
glad you never bought us a TV. This will definitely be much more
entertaining.”
Bloodshot
and pain-filled brown eyes met hard green ones as realization dawned.
His father glanced around his bedroom and noticed his shotgun was not
in the corner. It was gone. Even if it had been there, he wouldn’t
have had the strength to get up and get it.
His
father fell back onto the bed and turned to look at his wife. She was
curled up with her arms wrapped around her knees, which were pulled
up to her chest. She had heard the conversation and opened her eyes
long enough to say to her husband, “We both deserve this.”
His
father rolled onto his back and looked at his son, who stood at the
foot of the bed, arms crossed, green eyes cold and staring.
“Shoulda
known you were the devil’s seed.” Without waiting for the boy to
comment, he added, “I loved your momma and thought I did the right
thing by marrying her when she was pregnant by another man. Shoulda
known you were evil when you killed your own mother, you no good
piece of shit.”
Finally,
an answer. Although it didn’t matter now. The man who’d raised
him wasn’t his father. The man who’d raised him resented him for
taking his mother’s life in childbirth. Another man’s bastard had
killed the woman he loved and he was going to make that child pay.
Had been making that child pay ever since.
In a way, he could kind of understand that. He almost
allowed a stab of conscience in, telling him he should take them to
the hospital. Maybe it wasn’t too late.
But
then he remembered Ruthie. There was no excuse for what had happened
to Ruthie. No excuse at all.
He
stared coldly at the man he’d thought was his father. “I’m just
sorry I didn’t do this before you let her kill Ruthie.”
Then
he went to the kitchen and made himself something to eat.
After
they were dead, he loaded them both in the back of the family car and
drove them out to the second grave. He dumped their bodies with as
much care as he’d show a pile of old chicken bones and flung the
dirt back in. He hurled the shovel in the back of the station wagon
and drove back to the house.
He
wanted to draw as little attention to the shack as possible. He would
not burn it down, but he would give careful thought as to what it
should look like if a family just up and left, taking only things
they could load in their one car. He went to work, packing up what
few pictures they had, their personal papers and clothes. He sneered
when he saw a picture of his father as a boy. He looked like a
miserable piece of shit even back then. He tossed it in with the
other things. He never came across a single picture of himself or his
mother.
He
carelessly threw everything he could into the old car, barely leaving
room for himself to fit into the driver’s seat. He went into his
bedroom and retrieved the brown bag that held the few things he’d
set aside to take with him. It contained some clothes, along with
thirty dollars and twenty-six cents that he’d scavenged from his
father’s wallet and Ida’s money cup, which he’d found hidden
behind some dishes in the kitchen. He reached into his pocket,
retrieving something he hadn’t known existed until he’d started
cleaning out their personal items. It was a picture of Ruthie and
Razor. It had obviously been taken at their house, but he didn’t
know when or by whom. He never found existence of a camera when he
was going through their belongings. He had no way of knowing where
the picture came from and he didn’t have time to ponder it.
He
looked at it again. Ruthie was sitting down in the grass and looking
up and smiling. She was leaning against Razor, who had himself
wrapped around her like a cocoon. Her knees were pulled up to her
chest and she had her arms wrapped tightly around them. Her blonde
curls were shorter then. The two of them looked happy. Like they had
been romping in the tall grass and had taken a break to pose. He knew
neither Ida nor his father had taken the picture. If that had been
the case, he was certain his baby sister wouldn’t have been
smiling. He carefully returned it to his back pocket and continued
his cleanup.
Hours
later he stood in the middle of the little house, surveying it. He
wasn’t certain, but he was pretty confident he’d loaded up the
important stuff. It was the fourth of the month. The electric and
water bills wouldn’t need to get paid again until the thirtieth.
School was out, so he wouldn’t be missed until September. And even
then, he was doubtful anybody would care. His father wasn’t
regularly employed, so he wouldn’t be missed, either. They had no
phone to worry about.
Yes,
it looked like the family that lived here decided to move with their
most personal possessions. The small amount of mail they got could
stack up for months in their little slot at the post office. Nobody
would notice. And by the time they did, it wouldn’t matter. He’d
be long gone.
He
headed out to the chicken coop to set them free when he noticed
laundry on the clothesline. He would grab those clothes and toss them
in the car before leaving. After retrieving his brown bag and
canteen, he carefully drove the family’s car to the nearest,
deepest canal he knew. It was off the beaten path and he didn’t
have to pass any houses or civilization to get there. It would be a
long, hot walk to hitch a ride somewhere, but he only had a brown bag
to carry and his canteen, which he’d filled with water.
Now,
in the gas station restroom, he splashed cold water on his face and
dried off. He reached into his back pocket before leaving the
restroom and took out the picture of Ruthie and Razor. He would never
hold her again. He would never hear her voice asking for a story. He
would never wrap his arms around Razor’s neck and nuzzle his short
fur. He swiped away the tears that had started forming in his eyes
and returned the picture to his back pocket.
He’d
taken a vow that day at Ruthie’s grave. No more crying. Ever.
He
was starting to get hungry and decided to go back to the car to get
some money. He would see what the gas station had in the way of food.
Hopefully, they had some candy bars and soda pop. He’d tasted soda
only once and was looking forward to the sugary drink.
He
made his way around the side of the gas station and stopped dead in
his tracks. The car he had been riding in was gone. He blinked to see
if his eyes were playing tricks on him. They weren’t. That
son-of-a-bitch drove off with his brown bag that contained his few
items of clothing and all of his money. He had left his canteen on
the front seat. Even that was gone.
The
world was rotten and so was everybody in it.
OUT OF TIME is the HIGHLY ANTICIPATED sequel to NINE MINUTES where Grizz, Kit and Grunt's gritty tale continues on July 23rd!
Add this gritty MC romance to your TBR HERE: http://bit.ly/1fxKd80
Blurb
RECOMMENDED FOR READERS 18 AND OLDER DUE TO
STRONG LANGUAGE, SEXUAL SITUATIONS AND VIOLENCE
Out of Time is book two in a series. It is not a standalone novel. I highly recommend that you read my first novel, Nine Minutes, to be able to understand the background stories of the main characters. There are many twists and turns in both stories that can best be connected if read consecutively.
Although I do answer all of the outstanding questions from Nine Minutes, there is more to this story, and some readers may consider it a cliffhanger. If you do not like cliffhangers, you may want to wait until the third novel is released in 2016.
They thought with his execution it would all be over.
They were wrong.
The leader of one of South Florida’s most notorious and brutal motorcycle gangs has been put to death by lethal injection. Days later, his family and friends should have been picking up the pieces, moving on. Instead, they’ve been catapulted into a world so twisted and dangerous even the most ruthless among them would be stunned to discover the tangled web of deception, not only on the dangerous streets of South Florida but all the way to the top.
In this gripping follow-up novel to Nine Minutes, Out of Time takes readers from the sun-drenched flatlands of 1950s Central Florida to the vivid tropical heat of Fort Lauderdale to the halls of Florida’s Death Row as we finally learn the gritty backstory of Jason “Grizz” Talbot and the secret he spent his life trying to conceal.
Not even Grizz’s inner circle knows his full story—the tragedy that enveloped his early life, the surprise discovery that made him the government’s most wanted and most feared, and the depths of his love for Ginny, the tenderhearted innocent he’d once abducted and later made his wife.
Once Grizz’s obsession and now the mother of his child, Ginny has spent years grieving the man she’d first resisted and then came to love. Now remarried to Tommy, a former member of the gang, the pair have spent more than a decade trying desperately to live a normal existence far from the violent, crime-ridden world they’d once carved out on the edge of the Florida Everglades. For Tommy, especially, the stakes are high. Desperately in love with Ginny for years, he’s finally living his dream: married to the woman he never thought he could have. But even with the façade of normalcy—thriving careers, two beautiful children, and a genuinely happy and loving marriage—they can’t seem to put the past behind them. Every time they turn around, another secret is revealed, unraveling the very bonds that hold them together.
And with Grizz finally put to death, now Ginny has learned secrets so dark, so evil she’s not even sure she can go on.
Will these secrets tear their love to pieces? And how far will Grizz go to protect what he still considers his, even from beyond the grave?
Haven’t read this series yet, check out Nine Minutes for
ONLY $1.99!
Amazon US: http://amzn.to/1Gerd3c
Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/1BCH3cV
Barnes & Noble: http://bit.ly/1KXRtHk
About the Author:
Beth Flynn is a fiction writer who lives and works in Sapphire, North Carolina, deep within the southern Blue Ridge Mountains. Raised in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, Beth and her husband, Jim, have spent the last 17 years in Sapphire, where they own a construction company. They have been married 31 years and have two daughters and two dogs. In her spare time, Beth enjoys writing, reading, gardening, church and motorcycles, especially taking rides on the back of her husband’s Harley. She is a five-year breast cancer survivor.
