Sara Thacker's Blog: Red Skhye In Morning, page 15
May 7, 2011
Chapter 2:Part 2
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The bobbing movement woke her. She blinked at the low fiery ball in the sky, wondering if it was morning or night. For a few seconds she forgot the boat, the madman and the week of torture then it all came rushing back.
Her hand fell to the bed, but the sheets were gone. The surface wasn't soft and fluffy. Instead, it was slick and hard. She moved to stand but the floor gave way and she tumbled in a heap. Bright yellow surrounded her.
"Ah, I was wondering when you'd wake up. Thirty-six hours, that's impressive. The rubber raft you're lying on will be your home from now on."
The raft? She glanced around, shocked by all the yellow. The bastard had put her in a raft. She tried to speak but all that came out was a horse croak.
"No, don't try to talk. I've left two bottles of water and a little food. Who knows, you may survive if a freighter sails past and decides to stop to pick you up. But don't worry. I won't tell anyone that you're out there alone." He flashed a smile like he'd given her a diamond ring instead of a death trap. "Oh, and I've left you a gift. Go on, open it."
She looked around, perplexed. The red wrapped box felt foreign to her fingers. Her mind couldn't comprehend the incongruity of the present with her captivity.
The bright paper was held together with yellow ribbon. She pulled the bow and the wrapping began to unravel. The first thing she saw were fangs. Then she spied the bright red and yellow bands that ran together. After tossing the Plexiglas box across the raft she saw the bottle of sunscreen sharing quarters with the snake.
"You really should use the protection. It might save your life."
His deep laugh sent a chill down her spine. She wanted to yell and fight. Maybe she could pull herself back to the boat and climb aboard. But death and pain lived on that ship. Perhaps being alone would be better.
A bottle of water rolled to her side. She grabbed the bottle, twisted off the cap and took a long draw of the cool liquid.
"If I were you I'd be careful. That water needs to last a long time."
With her throat lubricated she could talk. "Cut me loose," her voice croaked and cracked, no longer the beautiful lilt that had made her millions.
He pulled out a knife, studying the blade. A wicket smile flashed across his face and for a moment she thought he would pull her back in. Then, as if he had no care in the world, he reached out and cut the rope. His lips curved into a malicious smile and a shiver snaked down her spine. Eventually she would die, but at least she'd die alone and away from the jerk.
The tall sail lifted on his boat and caught the wind. It only took a few minutes for him to begin drifting away, leaving her all alone with the little fishies, two water bottles, a small loaf of bread, and a psyched out snake holding a bottle of sunscreen hostage.
She curled up on her side and hunkered down, letting the waves rock her to near unconsciousness. Maybe she would wake up in heaven and all of this would be gone. She sighed and tried to forget the horror of the last few days. Sleep pulled her down and she gave in, not caring what happened to her little raft or herself.
Copyright Sara Thacker 2011
The bobbing movement woke her. She blinked at the low fiery ball in the sky, wondering if it was morning or night. For a few seconds she forgot the boat, the madman and the week of torture then it all came rushing back.
Her hand fell to the bed, but the sheets were gone. The surface wasn't soft and fluffy. Instead, it was slick and hard. She moved to stand but the floor gave way and she tumbled in a heap. Bright yellow surrounded her.
"Ah, I was wondering when you'd wake up. Thirty-six hours, that's impressive. The rubber raft you're lying on will be your home from now on."
The raft? She glanced around, shocked by all the yellow. The bastard had put her in a raft. She tried to speak but all that came out was a horse croak.
"No, don't try to talk. I've left two bottles of water and a little food. Who knows, you may survive if a freighter sails past and decides to stop to pick you up. But don't worry. I won't tell anyone that you're out there alone." He flashed a smile like he'd given her a diamond ring instead of a death trap. "Oh, and I've left you a gift. Go on, open it."
She looked around, perplexed. The red wrapped box felt foreign to her fingers. Her mind couldn't comprehend the incongruity of the present with her captivity.
The bright paper was held together with yellow ribbon. She pulled the bow and the wrapping began to unravel. The first thing she saw were fangs. Then she spied the bright red and yellow bands that ran together. After tossing the Plexiglas box across the raft she saw the bottle of sunscreen sharing quarters with the snake.
"You really should use the protection. It might save your life."
His deep laugh sent a chill down her spine. She wanted to yell and fight. Maybe she could pull herself back to the boat and climb aboard. But death and pain lived on that ship. Perhaps being alone would be better.
A bottle of water rolled to her side. She grabbed the bottle, twisted off the cap and took a long draw of the cool liquid.
"If I were you I'd be careful. That water needs to last a long time."
With her throat lubricated she could talk. "Cut me loose," her voice croaked and cracked, no longer the beautiful lilt that had made her millions.
He pulled out a knife, studying the blade. A wicket smile flashed across his face and for a moment she thought he would pull her back in. Then, as if he had no care in the world, he reached out and cut the rope. His lips curved into a malicious smile and a shiver snaked down her spine. Eventually she would die, but at least she'd die alone and away from the jerk.
The tall sail lifted on his boat and caught the wind. It only took a few minutes for him to begin drifting away, leaving her all alone with the little fishies, two water bottles, a small loaf of bread, and a psyched out snake holding a bottle of sunscreen hostage.
She curled up on her side and hunkered down, letting the waves rock her to near unconsciousness. Maybe she would wake up in heaven and all of this would be gone. She sighed and tried to forget the horror of the last few days. Sleep pulled her down and she gave in, not caring what happened to her little raft or herself.
Copyright Sara Thacker 2011
May 6, 2011
Chapter 2:Part 1
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Delanie's problems weren't of titanic proportions, thank God, but she'd had enough trouble with rumors surrounding her life to have knocked her down a few pegs. Everyone wanted to break the worst possible news about Delanie Skhye. The tabloids loved the bad and hated the good. Usually, the bad wasn't nearly as horrible as the news rags portrayed, and the good was better than they let on. She needed the press and the press needed her to be stupid. It was a vicious cycle. This island home would be her break from the crazy rumors and trash talk.
One month. It had seemed like such a short time in the grand scheme of things, but on the third day she freaked. A quick call to the pilot would bring him back, and then what? Ruined plans and more pressure, not something she needed. She sat on the black kitchen chair and rocked back and forth for over thirty minutes. Staying here would be the break she needed, but alone never felt so alone back in the states. Of course she was never truly alone at home. Lucy had always been a phone call away. And if Lucy was busy then a long list of people were always at the ready to come and play.
The lack of mechanical noises felt almost eerie. No planes or helicopters buzzed overhead. No cars sped by with angry motorist blaring their horns. The silence got to her. She raced out of the kitchen and down to the small lagoon. With her hands braced on her knees she breathed in deep, trying to catch her breath. Oh, good God, what would people say if they could see her now?
The gentle roll of the waves up the beach was hypnotic. After recovering from her mad dash down to the lagoon she strolled over and let the water cool her feet. She closed her eyes and wondered how she would feel at the end of the month without any human interaction. The sailboat from last night had stayed away after all. She wasn't sure if it was the sign on the dock telling boaters to keep away or just general lack of interest in the island.
The beach at the cove was small and only took a few minutes for her to run from one end to the other. Little waves left behind diminutive arched designs on the sand, not at all like the great rolling waves on the other side of the island which turned the sand in on its self, leaving shells and seaweed scattered across the white expanse.
She turned to the trees behind her. The tall palms stood beside shorter bushes. Different shades of green filled every available space. Red, yellow, and purple flowers popped out in the vegetation. There was so much to explore on this island. At some point during the first day, otherwise known as instruction day, she had promised not to stand on the overlook at the northern tip. The drop was forty feet straight down into crashing waves. She would go up there at some point, just not to the edge.
"Ha, this is more like reality than what I've been living." Delanie covered her mouth, and began giggling. "I am so going to have to get over not talking to myself." She'd spent years perfecting the art of never speaking aloud to herself. The entertainment industry was cutthroat. Any hint that you were a bit touched and your name would be splashed across the worst of the magazines trashing you to bits. So far she'd avoided any problems with being labeled crazy.
If she could survive the tabloids then she could survive a few more weeks of solitude. She threw off thoughts of calling for the pilot and ran up the long walkway to the house, admiring the thick vegetation as she went. This really was paradise.
After a quick change into her swimsuit she sprayed on sunscreen, making sure to double coat her back. With a pair of sandals in hand, she skipped down the walkway to stairs leading out to the beach on the wild side if the island.
The path was steep and filled with steps that could trip her up. Ascending during the daylight hours didn't bother her, but nighttime would be a different story.
Bright sun turned the beach golden and sparkled off the waves. She spun around, loving that the house wasn't visible from the beach. She could sit out here all-day and pretend that she was shipwrecked with no food or water. At some point she would build a fire and try to light it like in the movies. Of course no one in the movies actually used rocks and sticks to light a fire, but she would love pretending. And just like on set she would have matches stowed away in her pocket just in case she couldn't get the fire going. She would sip coconut juice and enjoy a fresh caught fish.
The waves crashed and rolled high on the sand. The cool water felt good on her toes. She picked up seashells and piled them up in the dry zone. After a few hours of trolling the beach she'd collected about forty beautiful shells that were unbroken.
The roaring sound of a huge wave crashed on the shore. She turned to see the water rushing at her. A shriek burst from her lips. She ran towards the steps leading back to the house. The water caught her and slammed little pellets of sand into her calves.
As quick as the water had advanced it rolled back into the ocean. She fell to the sand in a fit of the giggles. All of the shells she'd gathered had washed back into the water except for a few. She crawled over to the six shells still on the sand and picked them up. "I'm going to make some jewelry from you six. Or maybe I'll find a frame and hot glue you little suckers around the edge. Aren't you glad you decided to stick with me?"
Delanie ran up the steps, looking back only once. The horizon looked funny. A dark color smudged the sky, almost like smoke from a fire.
She blew it off and continued up the steps. Tomorrow she'd come back and play in the frothy surf. Now it was time for dinner and an early bedtime so she could wake and see the sun rise.
Copyright Sara Thacker 2011
Delanie's problems weren't of titanic proportions, thank God, but she'd had enough trouble with rumors surrounding her life to have knocked her down a few pegs. Everyone wanted to break the worst possible news about Delanie Skhye. The tabloids loved the bad and hated the good. Usually, the bad wasn't nearly as horrible as the news rags portrayed, and the good was better than they let on. She needed the press and the press needed her to be stupid. It was a vicious cycle. This island home would be her break from the crazy rumors and trash talk.
One month. It had seemed like such a short time in the grand scheme of things, but on the third day she freaked. A quick call to the pilot would bring him back, and then what? Ruined plans and more pressure, not something she needed. She sat on the black kitchen chair and rocked back and forth for over thirty minutes. Staying here would be the break she needed, but alone never felt so alone back in the states. Of course she was never truly alone at home. Lucy had always been a phone call away. And if Lucy was busy then a long list of people were always at the ready to come and play.
The lack of mechanical noises felt almost eerie. No planes or helicopters buzzed overhead. No cars sped by with angry motorist blaring their horns. The silence got to her. She raced out of the kitchen and down to the small lagoon. With her hands braced on her knees she breathed in deep, trying to catch her breath. Oh, good God, what would people say if they could see her now?
The gentle roll of the waves up the beach was hypnotic. After recovering from her mad dash down to the lagoon she strolled over and let the water cool her feet. She closed her eyes and wondered how she would feel at the end of the month without any human interaction. The sailboat from last night had stayed away after all. She wasn't sure if it was the sign on the dock telling boaters to keep away or just general lack of interest in the island.
The beach at the cove was small and only took a few minutes for her to run from one end to the other. Little waves left behind diminutive arched designs on the sand, not at all like the great rolling waves on the other side of the island which turned the sand in on its self, leaving shells and seaweed scattered across the white expanse.
She turned to the trees behind her. The tall palms stood beside shorter bushes. Different shades of green filled every available space. Red, yellow, and purple flowers popped out in the vegetation. There was so much to explore on this island. At some point during the first day, otherwise known as instruction day, she had promised not to stand on the overlook at the northern tip. The drop was forty feet straight down into crashing waves. She would go up there at some point, just not to the edge.
"Ha, this is more like reality than what I've been living." Delanie covered her mouth, and began giggling. "I am so going to have to get over not talking to myself." She'd spent years perfecting the art of never speaking aloud to herself. The entertainment industry was cutthroat. Any hint that you were a bit touched and your name would be splashed across the worst of the magazines trashing you to bits. So far she'd avoided any problems with being labeled crazy.
If she could survive the tabloids then she could survive a few more weeks of solitude. She threw off thoughts of calling for the pilot and ran up the long walkway to the house, admiring the thick vegetation as she went. This really was paradise.
After a quick change into her swimsuit she sprayed on sunscreen, making sure to double coat her back. With a pair of sandals in hand, she skipped down the walkway to stairs leading out to the beach on the wild side if the island.
The path was steep and filled with steps that could trip her up. Ascending during the daylight hours didn't bother her, but nighttime would be a different story.
Bright sun turned the beach golden and sparkled off the waves. She spun around, loving that the house wasn't visible from the beach. She could sit out here all-day and pretend that she was shipwrecked with no food or water. At some point she would build a fire and try to light it like in the movies. Of course no one in the movies actually used rocks and sticks to light a fire, but she would love pretending. And just like on set she would have matches stowed away in her pocket just in case she couldn't get the fire going. She would sip coconut juice and enjoy a fresh caught fish.
The waves crashed and rolled high on the sand. The cool water felt good on her toes. She picked up seashells and piled them up in the dry zone. After a few hours of trolling the beach she'd collected about forty beautiful shells that were unbroken.
The roaring sound of a huge wave crashed on the shore. She turned to see the water rushing at her. A shriek burst from her lips. She ran towards the steps leading back to the house. The water caught her and slammed little pellets of sand into her calves.
As quick as the water had advanced it rolled back into the ocean. She fell to the sand in a fit of the giggles. All of the shells she'd gathered had washed back into the water except for a few. She crawled over to the six shells still on the sand and picked them up. "I'm going to make some jewelry from you six. Or maybe I'll find a frame and hot glue you little suckers around the edge. Aren't you glad you decided to stick with me?"
Delanie ran up the steps, looking back only once. The horizon looked funny. A dark color smudged the sky, almost like smoke from a fire.
She blew it off and continued up the steps. Tomorrow she'd come back and play in the frothy surf. Now it was time for dinner and an early bedtime so she could wake and see the sun rise.
Copyright Sara Thacker 2011
May 5, 2011
Chapter 1:Part 3
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A cold, gray dawn broke over the bow of the ship mirroring her thoughts. She'd tried to stop thinking, but her mind churned and roved, wondering about what could have been.
A dozen days had passed since they'd left port. She couldn't remember why she'd gone with him. Maybe it had been the cocky grin, or the perfect abs. Or maybe the twinkle in his blue eyes that had made her want him more than the protection of staying near land where she could place a call or maybe even escape. Then again, protection had been the furthest thing from her mind when she'd boarded his sailboat.
A sharp fin rose above the waterline then slowly sank into the deep. The sight of the large, white nose below her sent a shiver down her spine. Could that be a true Great White? Maybe today would be the day the torture stopped and he would allow her to die.
Escape was no longer an option. The ocean was needy and only death would bring her the relief she craved. At least the sun wasn't blasting her with its fiery heat, yet. Once the clouds burned away, the sun would fry her crispy.
The bastard had given her enough water so she hadn't succumbed to heat stroke, but the sun had blistered her hide. If she lived, her body would never be the same. The worst was the previously white strip her bikini used to cover. The bastard had turned her every so often, making sure that her breast blistered as well as her bum.
Desperation had driven her to this point. Everything in her life had seemed fulfilling from the outside. People actually thought she was happy. But she hadn't been. No one had known the truth of her existence. She'd been depressed, sad beyond belief to the point that the thrill of excitement with a stranger had drawn her away from safety to this hellish place.
She heard him stir somewhere below or maybe it was her mind playing tricks. Either way, he would eventually skip up the stairs and out the hatch. With an overly bright voice he would shout out a jovial greeting, declaring how wonderful the day would be. Sick bastard.
She was nauseated by his attitude. Sure, he had a wonderful day of torture planned for her, but that meant she'd have a shitty time. Today of all days she wished he'd hit his head, fall overboard and die.
How far she had fallen? She'd actually begged in the beginning. Every ounce of composure and etiquette that flowed through her veins had been wiped away and drained from her being. She'd do anything to gain her freedom.
Her birthday should be today, or was it yesterday? Hell, maybe it was next week, she didn't know. The frequent loss of consciousness left her delirious, making the days run together. Maybe today would be her last day on this earth then she could celebrate at least one thing.
How had she gotten so bitter? She knew the answer but didn't want to admit that being tied up and abused for the better part of two weeks had altered her so drastically. Now her body was as close to broken as she could get.
She tried to sneer, but the pain of her sunburn was too much. Betty Proctor would never go out on a sailboat with a stranger. Heck, Betty Proctor wouldn't do a lot of things. Betty Proctor been a good little girl, teacher's favorite in school and all that.
Why the hell had she thought of Betty Proctor at a time like this? Her mind was wandering too far. Nothing like torture to make you look at the world differently. What she wouldn't give for the chance to have tea with snooty, little Betty Proctor right now. Maybe if she'd been friends with the little goodie two shoes she wouldn't be in this mess right now.
"Would you look at that sunrise! The color is amazing. Don't you think?" His voice cut through her muddled ramblings, chilling her blistered skin.
She no longer cared about pleasing him. Her eyes didn't move to look at him, nor did she speak as he came closer. His legs only inches from her but she did her best to ignore him. Then the flash of something shiny caught her attention. She turned her head ever so slightly and gasped as he tossed the blade from one hand to the other. Fear spiked then ebbed away. What else could he do to her? Maybe a quick plunge of the knife between her ribs was the relief she was looking for.
After a few moments of his strutting around with the knife she mentally shrugged and dropped her head, no longer interested in what he did. Death might as well come from a blade as a shark, at least with the blade she'd be dead quickly.
"You think I'm going to slice you with this. Don't be too disappointed with me. I'm actually going to cut you down."
Elation and hope bubbled in her chest. Thoughts of home filled her until she realized he wouldn't let her live. Even if he did show a few minutes of kindness, he could never let her off this boat.
With the flick of his wrist, the ropes fell. She dropped into his arms, cradled like a baby. He lowered her to the hard fiberglass decking, taking care not to let her head bounce.
Pain flashed for a second then the numbing bliss of too much stimulation took over. Not caring about the pain did wonderful things for her memory. She quickly forgot the pain of hanging by ropes and replaced it with fear of what was to come next.
He grabbed her arms and dragged her down the steps then pushed her into the small bathroom. "Shower now, you stink."
She stepped into the small cubicle, numb to the events taking place. The words should make sense in her brain but they didn't. A shower seemed like a luxury she would never enjoy again.
He chuckled, "This is going to hurt." He turned the water on full blast. Pain ripped through her as the icy water ran over her dry and cracked skin. He shut the door, leaving her alone.
With her mouth wide she turned to the spray and gulped at the refreshing liquid, loving how it bathed her tongue. The relief was minimal, but it gave her enough energy to begin cleaning herself. After shampooing once and washing her body as gently as she could, she turned off the water, waiting for his next set of instructions. She didn't dare take any initiative on her own. His punishment had taught her that much.
He pushed open the door and tossed her a towel. "Come now."
She tried to dry herself as she followed but the pain was too much. Desperation was replaced by depression. The nightmare just kept going. Even if she wanted to, she couldn't run. Life had winnowed down to this small sailboat and the two of them.
In the tiny cabin he pointed at the bed, "Sleep."
Her feet stalled. Images of horrible acts he might do to her filled her mind. Her eyes clamped shut, trying to block out most of the horror, but her small act of defiance didn't stave off the though of rape and beatings.
"Lay down and go to sleep," he commanded.
She shook her head, but knew she didn't have a choice. He led her to the bed and pushed her down. Gently, he pulled the covers over her and turned out the lights. The door shut softly behind him.
Her heart thundered and her mind flipped through the possibilities. What had just happened? This was crazy. Could he be letting her go, or was this just another sick game made to keep her off balance? She fought sleep, staying awake as long as possible, but the long days and nights of torture had taken its toll. She passed out before she could think of any means to escape.Copyright Sara Thacker
Like Red Skhye in Morning? Read Smooth Lies
A cold, gray dawn broke over the bow of the ship mirroring her thoughts. She'd tried to stop thinking, but her mind churned and roved, wondering about what could have been.
A dozen days had passed since they'd left port. She couldn't remember why she'd gone with him. Maybe it had been the cocky grin, or the perfect abs. Or maybe the twinkle in his blue eyes that had made her want him more than the protection of staying near land where she could place a call or maybe even escape. Then again, protection had been the furthest thing from her mind when she'd boarded his sailboat.
A sharp fin rose above the waterline then slowly sank into the deep. The sight of the large, white nose below her sent a shiver down her spine. Could that be a true Great White? Maybe today would be the day the torture stopped and he would allow her to die.
Escape was no longer an option. The ocean was needy and only death would bring her the relief she craved. At least the sun wasn't blasting her with its fiery heat, yet. Once the clouds burned away, the sun would fry her crispy.
The bastard had given her enough water so she hadn't succumbed to heat stroke, but the sun had blistered her hide. If she lived, her body would never be the same. The worst was the previously white strip her bikini used to cover. The bastard had turned her every so often, making sure that her breast blistered as well as her bum.
Desperation had driven her to this point. Everything in her life had seemed fulfilling from the outside. People actually thought she was happy. But she hadn't been. No one had known the truth of her existence. She'd been depressed, sad beyond belief to the point that the thrill of excitement with a stranger had drawn her away from safety to this hellish place.
She heard him stir somewhere below or maybe it was her mind playing tricks. Either way, he would eventually skip up the stairs and out the hatch. With an overly bright voice he would shout out a jovial greeting, declaring how wonderful the day would be. Sick bastard.
She was nauseated by his attitude. Sure, he had a wonderful day of torture planned for her, but that meant she'd have a shitty time. Today of all days she wished he'd hit his head, fall overboard and die.
How far she had fallen? She'd actually begged in the beginning. Every ounce of composure and etiquette that flowed through her veins had been wiped away and drained from her being. She'd do anything to gain her freedom.
Her birthday should be today, or was it yesterday? Hell, maybe it was next week, she didn't know. The frequent loss of consciousness left her delirious, making the days run together. Maybe today would be her last day on this earth then she could celebrate at least one thing.
How had she gotten so bitter? She knew the answer but didn't want to admit that being tied up and abused for the better part of two weeks had altered her so drastically. Now her body was as close to broken as she could get.
She tried to sneer, but the pain of her sunburn was too much. Betty Proctor would never go out on a sailboat with a stranger. Heck, Betty Proctor wouldn't do a lot of things. Betty Proctor been a good little girl, teacher's favorite in school and all that.
Why the hell had she thought of Betty Proctor at a time like this? Her mind was wandering too far. Nothing like torture to make you look at the world differently. What she wouldn't give for the chance to have tea with snooty, little Betty Proctor right now. Maybe if she'd been friends with the little goodie two shoes she wouldn't be in this mess right now.
"Would you look at that sunrise! The color is amazing. Don't you think?" His voice cut through her muddled ramblings, chilling her blistered skin.
She no longer cared about pleasing him. Her eyes didn't move to look at him, nor did she speak as he came closer. His legs only inches from her but she did her best to ignore him. Then the flash of something shiny caught her attention. She turned her head ever so slightly and gasped as he tossed the blade from one hand to the other. Fear spiked then ebbed away. What else could he do to her? Maybe a quick plunge of the knife between her ribs was the relief she was looking for.
After a few moments of his strutting around with the knife she mentally shrugged and dropped her head, no longer interested in what he did. Death might as well come from a blade as a shark, at least with the blade she'd be dead quickly.
"You think I'm going to slice you with this. Don't be too disappointed with me. I'm actually going to cut you down."
Elation and hope bubbled in her chest. Thoughts of home filled her until she realized he wouldn't let her live. Even if he did show a few minutes of kindness, he could never let her off this boat.
With the flick of his wrist, the ropes fell. She dropped into his arms, cradled like a baby. He lowered her to the hard fiberglass decking, taking care not to let her head bounce.
Pain flashed for a second then the numbing bliss of too much stimulation took over. Not caring about the pain did wonderful things for her memory. She quickly forgot the pain of hanging by ropes and replaced it with fear of what was to come next.
He grabbed her arms and dragged her down the steps then pushed her into the small bathroom. "Shower now, you stink."
She stepped into the small cubicle, numb to the events taking place. The words should make sense in her brain but they didn't. A shower seemed like a luxury she would never enjoy again.
He chuckled, "This is going to hurt." He turned the water on full blast. Pain ripped through her as the icy water ran over her dry and cracked skin. He shut the door, leaving her alone.
With her mouth wide she turned to the spray and gulped at the refreshing liquid, loving how it bathed her tongue. The relief was minimal, but it gave her enough energy to begin cleaning herself. After shampooing once and washing her body as gently as she could, she turned off the water, waiting for his next set of instructions. She didn't dare take any initiative on her own. His punishment had taught her that much.
He pushed open the door and tossed her a towel. "Come now."
She tried to dry herself as she followed but the pain was too much. Desperation was replaced by depression. The nightmare just kept going. Even if she wanted to, she couldn't run. Life had winnowed down to this small sailboat and the two of them.
In the tiny cabin he pointed at the bed, "Sleep."
Her feet stalled. Images of horrible acts he might do to her filled her mind. Her eyes clamped shut, trying to block out most of the horror, but her small act of defiance didn't stave off the though of rape and beatings.
"Lay down and go to sleep," he commanded.
She shook her head, but knew she didn't have a choice. He led her to the bed and pushed her down. Gently, he pulled the covers over her and turned out the lights. The door shut softly behind him.
Her heart thundered and her mind flipped through the possibilities. What had just happened? This was crazy. Could he be letting her go, or was this just another sick game made to keep her off balance? She fought sleep, staying awake as long as possible, but the long days and nights of torture had taken its toll. She passed out before she could think of any means to escape.Copyright Sara Thacker
Like Red Skhye in Morning? Read Smooth Lies
May 4, 2011
Chapter 1:Part 2
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William Sterling Rowland the Third rolled his squeaky chair back and kicked his feet up onto his desk. His black Hugo Boss oxfords were scuffed and worn, no more than what a normal person lived with, but he was a Rowland, and Rowlands dressed to the nines, even at six in the morning. The fact that he was wearing Hugo Boss and not Testoni would make his sisters faint, but he didn't give a shit. Wearing Testoni in the office would probably get him shot and not by any of the criminals he worked so hard to catch.
It gave him great pleasure that his family felt disappointed with him. He sure as hell couldn't expect them to be proud of the fact that he actually worked at a real job. So if wearing scuffed shoes made them agitated then he was all for it.
One thing he wouldn't play at was the insistence that everyone he worked with or knew called him Bill. He hated the pretentious nature of his name and the baggage it brought along for the ride. By all accounts he shouldn't even be an FBI agent. Rowlands didn't hold jobs. If he'd been a lawyer or a judge his family might forgive him for signing up to be a slave to others, but only if he promised to run for senator or president one day, but he had wanted to get his hands dirty. His parents had fought hard, even calling in favors from a few of their pet senators. Unfortunately for them he'd already been accepted into the academy and was halfway through training before he even told his family what he was doing.
It took some fast thinking and quick talking on his part to get the senators to back off and give the FBI brass a break. His notoriety hadn't earned him any favors in the bureau, but he didn't mind the extra blood and sweat he had to put into his job just to get half the recognition his peers garnered. Recognition wasn't what he craved anyways. Results were what kept him working awful hours with negligible pay.
Now he had the task of finding killers. His work not only gave him purpose, it offered up a satisfaction that no amount of money could supply. Stopping the senseless destruction left behind by homicidal maniacs gave him joy. Maybe joy was too happy of a word, but his job created a unique satisfaction that filled him with pleasure all the way down to his gut.
Bill sifted through the stacks of paper. One sheet stood out. Four Americans had disappeared overseas recently. Specifically, young and beautiful citizens of the United States had gone missing in the Bahamas, all female.
Approaching footsteps outside his cube interrupted his concentration.
"Hey Bill, you coming for lunch?"
He looked up from his work, squinting at the intruder, Al Jackson. "Hmm, maybe. You got a minute?"
Jackson pulled up a chair and slouched down into the seat. "Can this wait? You know lunch..."
Agitation twisted in Bill's but. "Just give me two minutes."
"Shoot, but my stomach sucks at solving cases."
Bill resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Okay, so I've got this paper from the state department."
Al spit into Bill's trashcan, a disgusted look marring his features. "It's junk, toss it out. Those guys are clueless."
A wave of annoyance washed over Bill. He wanted to shoo Al out, but he needed a second opinion. Well, maybe he didn't need so much as want another opinion. "Yeah, well, anyways this paper is detailing four women who disappeared while traveling overseas."
"Hmmm, probably ran off with some guy. Let me guess, single but beautiful babes."
Bill glanced at the paper again. For some reason, beautiful women weren't taken seriously. They were blamed for crimes against them, taunted and teased by the system and treated badly by almost every circle of law enforcement he knew. "They were rather good looking, but I don't think any of these women flaked."
"Why?"
Bill huffed out a breath, mulling over his thoughts, looking for the right word to say to make someone take this seriously. "They were all young and rather beautiful, I'll give you that."
"Like I said, probably ran off." Jackson's chair squealed as he stood. "Listen, are you coming?"
Bill shook his head, wincing from the headache developing behind his eyes. He wished others had his drive for justice. More than once he'd been disgusted by the aimlessness he found in other FBI agents. Not that they were lazy, but the American work ethic, or lack of work ethic drove him crazy.
"Nah, I need to look into this, there's more to it than meets the eye."
"Waste of time. Not your area. Won't have any say in the case." Jackson turned and began walking away.
"Maybe so, but I'll obsess if I don't check it out."
Jackson stopped by the stair entrance and called across the empty bullpen. "Just remember to get your other stuff done or Baker will throw a fit."
"Yeah, don't worry about Baker. I know how to handle him."
"I'm sure you do." Jackson snorted as he stepped into the stairwell.
There were elements of this job that Bill hated. Working with office politics left him feeling dirty. Having to figure out the correct path to take to avoid the minefields of the Bureau wasn't fun.
Bill spent the next thirty minutes tracking down leads on where the four women stayed. One of the women had returned to her hotel three days after her scheduled checkout. Too much partying and recreational drug use made her lose track of time. In other words, she'd flaked. Women like this made his job harder. But one bad apple didn't make the whole bunch rotten.
His personal cell phone chirped. His wife's ring tone jarred him out of the zone. An involuntary hesitation kept him from picking up the line for two more rings. He blew out a deep breath and hit talk, dreading the command performance he knew she would demand of him. "Darling, I'm glad you called."
"Really?" Shana's attitude said she didn't buy it. She knew how he felt about calls during work hours.
"Yes, really. We still on for tonight?"
"I was calling to make sure you knew." Her voice sounded strained, like she didn't believe him for a second.
"Of course. Five forty-five."
"Don't be late."
The warning in her voice hit him hard. Playing these games drove him crazy. Divorce wasn't an option he wanted to consider. He wished it would all go back to the way it was before. "I wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart."
"You've said those exact words on many occasions and then showed up two hours after our last guest left."His teeth clenched together, the he forced his body to relax as he spoke the next words. "I'll do everything I can to be on time."
"You should quit."
Damn, the exact subject he wanted to avoid. He was loaded. Even if they had five children who had five children, his grandchildren could live off of his trust fund without ever having to work a day in their life, and grow old never having to live frugally. But that wasn't the point. "Shana, I can't talk about that now."
"When?"
His shoulders went tight, his teeth clenched again. "When what?"
"When are you going to talk to me about this?"Pain shot from behind his eyes to the base of his skull. "It's not that simple."
"It seems that simple to me." She was too calm. Her voice should be going high by now. She must be near someone she knew or wanted to impress.
"You knew I was an FBI agent when you met me."
"Yeah but–"
"Stop." Bill took a moment to think before he spoke. Shana hadn't known about the money when they married. The prenuptial agreement his father insisted on had made her laugh. She thought Bill had some money, like a million socked away, but she never guessed the truth.
He wished to God the money didn't matter, but it did. "I will see you at the restaurant tonight before six."
He disconnected, not waiting for her to respond. Dropping a call like that made him feel like a shit, but she wouldn't listen about his job. Being an FBI agent was more than just a paycheck for him. The job soothed his soul.
When the riverside killer had taken his aunt, Bill vowed to do something about crime in the nation. Above and beyond the initiatives he supported for underprivileged kids and teens, he also wanted to physically take matters into his own hands.
Now he lived his dream job every day. If only his wife and family supported him. It hadn't always been that way with Shana. She loved the idea of a husband in the Bureau, that is, until the infamous weekend.
His office line rang and he scooped it up on the first ring. "Bill here, what can I do for you?"
"Oh good, the brain is there." Baker's voice grew loud. "Bill, I need you to go over a new case. Pronto." The line disconnected.
Great, some bigwig must be in town needing a special profile built up. Not only was Bill rich beyond belief he was also super smart. If there was a graduation, Bill was valedictorian. Studying wasn't really necessary either. That had pissed Shana off too.
Bill grabbed his cell phone. On second thought he tossed his personal phone into his brief bag, not wanting to field anymore questions from his wife. He loved her, but sometimes she was a bit too much.
Copyright Sara Thacker 2011
William Sterling Rowland the Third rolled his squeaky chair back and kicked his feet up onto his desk. His black Hugo Boss oxfords were scuffed and worn, no more than what a normal person lived with, but he was a Rowland, and Rowlands dressed to the nines, even at six in the morning. The fact that he was wearing Hugo Boss and not Testoni would make his sisters faint, but he didn't give a shit. Wearing Testoni in the office would probably get him shot and not by any of the criminals he worked so hard to catch.
It gave him great pleasure that his family felt disappointed with him. He sure as hell couldn't expect them to be proud of the fact that he actually worked at a real job. So if wearing scuffed shoes made them agitated then he was all for it.
One thing he wouldn't play at was the insistence that everyone he worked with or knew called him Bill. He hated the pretentious nature of his name and the baggage it brought along for the ride. By all accounts he shouldn't even be an FBI agent. Rowlands didn't hold jobs. If he'd been a lawyer or a judge his family might forgive him for signing up to be a slave to others, but only if he promised to run for senator or president one day, but he had wanted to get his hands dirty. His parents had fought hard, even calling in favors from a few of their pet senators. Unfortunately for them he'd already been accepted into the academy and was halfway through training before he even told his family what he was doing.
It took some fast thinking and quick talking on his part to get the senators to back off and give the FBI brass a break. His notoriety hadn't earned him any favors in the bureau, but he didn't mind the extra blood and sweat he had to put into his job just to get half the recognition his peers garnered. Recognition wasn't what he craved anyways. Results were what kept him working awful hours with negligible pay.
Now he had the task of finding killers. His work not only gave him purpose, it offered up a satisfaction that no amount of money could supply. Stopping the senseless destruction left behind by homicidal maniacs gave him joy. Maybe joy was too happy of a word, but his job created a unique satisfaction that filled him with pleasure all the way down to his gut.
Bill sifted through the stacks of paper. One sheet stood out. Four Americans had disappeared overseas recently. Specifically, young and beautiful citizens of the United States had gone missing in the Bahamas, all female.
Approaching footsteps outside his cube interrupted his concentration.
"Hey Bill, you coming for lunch?"
He looked up from his work, squinting at the intruder, Al Jackson. "Hmm, maybe. You got a minute?"
Jackson pulled up a chair and slouched down into the seat. "Can this wait? You know lunch..."
Agitation twisted in Bill's but. "Just give me two minutes."
"Shoot, but my stomach sucks at solving cases."
Bill resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Okay, so I've got this paper from the state department."
Al spit into Bill's trashcan, a disgusted look marring his features. "It's junk, toss it out. Those guys are clueless."
A wave of annoyance washed over Bill. He wanted to shoo Al out, but he needed a second opinion. Well, maybe he didn't need so much as want another opinion. "Yeah, well, anyways this paper is detailing four women who disappeared while traveling overseas."
"Hmmm, probably ran off with some guy. Let me guess, single but beautiful babes."
Bill glanced at the paper again. For some reason, beautiful women weren't taken seriously. They were blamed for crimes against them, taunted and teased by the system and treated badly by almost every circle of law enforcement he knew. "They were rather good looking, but I don't think any of these women flaked."
"Why?"
Bill huffed out a breath, mulling over his thoughts, looking for the right word to say to make someone take this seriously. "They were all young and rather beautiful, I'll give you that."
"Like I said, probably ran off." Jackson's chair squealed as he stood. "Listen, are you coming?"
Bill shook his head, wincing from the headache developing behind his eyes. He wished others had his drive for justice. More than once he'd been disgusted by the aimlessness he found in other FBI agents. Not that they were lazy, but the American work ethic, or lack of work ethic drove him crazy.
"Nah, I need to look into this, there's more to it than meets the eye."
"Waste of time. Not your area. Won't have any say in the case." Jackson turned and began walking away.
"Maybe so, but I'll obsess if I don't check it out."
Jackson stopped by the stair entrance and called across the empty bullpen. "Just remember to get your other stuff done or Baker will throw a fit."
"Yeah, don't worry about Baker. I know how to handle him."
"I'm sure you do." Jackson snorted as he stepped into the stairwell.
There were elements of this job that Bill hated. Working with office politics left him feeling dirty. Having to figure out the correct path to take to avoid the minefields of the Bureau wasn't fun.
Bill spent the next thirty minutes tracking down leads on where the four women stayed. One of the women had returned to her hotel three days after her scheduled checkout. Too much partying and recreational drug use made her lose track of time. In other words, she'd flaked. Women like this made his job harder. But one bad apple didn't make the whole bunch rotten.
His personal cell phone chirped. His wife's ring tone jarred him out of the zone. An involuntary hesitation kept him from picking up the line for two more rings. He blew out a deep breath and hit talk, dreading the command performance he knew she would demand of him. "Darling, I'm glad you called."
"Really?" Shana's attitude said she didn't buy it. She knew how he felt about calls during work hours.
"Yes, really. We still on for tonight?"
"I was calling to make sure you knew." Her voice sounded strained, like she didn't believe him for a second.
"Of course. Five forty-five."
"Don't be late."
The warning in her voice hit him hard. Playing these games drove him crazy. Divorce wasn't an option he wanted to consider. He wished it would all go back to the way it was before. "I wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart."
"You've said those exact words on many occasions and then showed up two hours after our last guest left."His teeth clenched together, the he forced his body to relax as he spoke the next words. "I'll do everything I can to be on time."
"You should quit."
Damn, the exact subject he wanted to avoid. He was loaded. Even if they had five children who had five children, his grandchildren could live off of his trust fund without ever having to work a day in their life, and grow old never having to live frugally. But that wasn't the point. "Shana, I can't talk about that now."
"When?"
His shoulders went tight, his teeth clenched again. "When what?"
"When are you going to talk to me about this?"Pain shot from behind his eyes to the base of his skull. "It's not that simple."
"It seems that simple to me." She was too calm. Her voice should be going high by now. She must be near someone she knew or wanted to impress.
"You knew I was an FBI agent when you met me."
"Yeah but–"
"Stop." Bill took a moment to think before he spoke. Shana hadn't known about the money when they married. The prenuptial agreement his father insisted on had made her laugh. She thought Bill had some money, like a million socked away, but she never guessed the truth.
He wished to God the money didn't matter, but it did. "I will see you at the restaurant tonight before six."
He disconnected, not waiting for her to respond. Dropping a call like that made him feel like a shit, but she wouldn't listen about his job. Being an FBI agent was more than just a paycheck for him. The job soothed his soul.
When the riverside killer had taken his aunt, Bill vowed to do something about crime in the nation. Above and beyond the initiatives he supported for underprivileged kids and teens, he also wanted to physically take matters into his own hands.
Now he lived his dream job every day. If only his wife and family supported him. It hadn't always been that way with Shana. She loved the idea of a husband in the Bureau, that is, until the infamous weekend.
His office line rang and he scooped it up on the first ring. "Bill here, what can I do for you?"
"Oh good, the brain is there." Baker's voice grew loud. "Bill, I need you to go over a new case. Pronto." The line disconnected.
Great, some bigwig must be in town needing a special profile built up. Not only was Bill rich beyond belief he was also super smart. If there was a graduation, Bill was valedictorian. Studying wasn't really necessary either. That had pissed Shana off too.
Bill grabbed his cell phone. On second thought he tossed his personal phone into his brief bag, not wanting to field anymore questions from his wife. He loved her, but sometimes she was a bit too much.
Copyright Sara Thacker 2011
May 3, 2011
Chapter 1:Part 1 - Red Skhye in Morning
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Doing nothing but lying on the beach would have driven Delanie Skhye crazy a year ago, but after shooting four straight films and enduring the publicity surrounding her breakup with Rhye Hamilton the nothingness scheduled for the next month felt wonderful. The little green dot of land she called home, at least for a while, was a welcome respite to the crap she usually put up with.
Heck, the crystal whitecaps and the non-smogged air were enough to make her want to stay. But the solitude equaled heaven in her mind. No horns honking, no angry drivers, no spying neighbors. The owner mentioned she might see a boat in the distance, but this was the Bahamas and there were bound to be boats.
The real kicker was no one knew where she'd gone. The paper trail connected to her name was non-existent. She'd inked her name on nothing tying her to the island.
The new identity matched her new hairstyle. Ms.-Blonder-than-she-paid-to-be had gone dark, at least temporarily dark. The cheap dye job had already started to wash out and would be gone in a week or less, revealing her trademark blonde locks.
Thank goodness the coloring had done its job. The pilot and the airlines knew her as Mysti Blake, not the world famous actress, Delanie Skhye. Of course she used stage makeup to hide herself from prying eyes on the trip over. God, she had looked awful. But the ruse worked. The legalities of her move were sketchy, but she would get her lawyer to work it all out if she got into trouble, not that anyone would ever know she was here.
The reward for her deception was a month of glorious freedom. She couldn't believe her luck. The last time she lived without the paparazzi parade making a fuss was five years ago, right before Life Control hit big. The movie made her a household name, rocketing her stardom to dizzying heights.
The spectacle of her movie career had drained her. A short break would make all the difference in the world for her mental acuity and her looks. The exhaustion of working nonstop had put five years on her face, this month she hoped to gain back at least two of those years.
Last night she started reading books again, and then she'd actually worked through a rough outline for a script. Of course her blondness would hinder her quest for writing and directing, but eventually they would take her seriously.
Early in her career she'd used the dumb blonde skit to her advantage, now the time neared for her smarts to be the main attraction and not her face. Financially, she could afford to never work again. Mentally, the lack of direction would drive her bonkers.
Delanie rolled over and let the sun warm her back. The tropical trees swayed around her in the gentle breeze. The scent of the ocean clung to her nostrils and competed with the fragrance of the frangipani and marlberry. Her eyes closed, and her mind slowed. This month of rest and relaxation without any interruption would give her the edge she needed.
The skin on the back of her neck crawled. Her head popped up as she opened her eyes, looking through the trees and out into the deep blue of the water. A boat drew close to the island, its white sail snapping in the wind. Maybe they would leave, but then again maybe not.
In one angry motion she jumped off the chair and pulled on her t-shirt. Damn it, she wanted nothing to do with any guests. Time to go down to the dock and run them off.
Copyright Sara Thacker 2011
Doing nothing but lying on the beach would have driven Delanie Skhye crazy a year ago, but after shooting four straight films and enduring the publicity surrounding her breakup with Rhye Hamilton the nothingness scheduled for the next month felt wonderful. The little green dot of land she called home, at least for a while, was a welcome respite to the crap she usually put up with.
Heck, the crystal whitecaps and the non-smogged air were enough to make her want to stay. But the solitude equaled heaven in her mind. No horns honking, no angry drivers, no spying neighbors. The owner mentioned she might see a boat in the distance, but this was the Bahamas and there were bound to be boats.
The real kicker was no one knew where she'd gone. The paper trail connected to her name was non-existent. She'd inked her name on nothing tying her to the island.
The new identity matched her new hairstyle. Ms.-Blonder-than-she-paid-to-be had gone dark, at least temporarily dark. The cheap dye job had already started to wash out and would be gone in a week or less, revealing her trademark blonde locks.
Thank goodness the coloring had done its job. The pilot and the airlines knew her as Mysti Blake, not the world famous actress, Delanie Skhye. Of course she used stage makeup to hide herself from prying eyes on the trip over. God, she had looked awful. But the ruse worked. The legalities of her move were sketchy, but she would get her lawyer to work it all out if she got into trouble, not that anyone would ever know she was here.
The reward for her deception was a month of glorious freedom. She couldn't believe her luck. The last time she lived without the paparazzi parade making a fuss was five years ago, right before Life Control hit big. The movie made her a household name, rocketing her stardom to dizzying heights.
The spectacle of her movie career had drained her. A short break would make all the difference in the world for her mental acuity and her looks. The exhaustion of working nonstop had put five years on her face, this month she hoped to gain back at least two of those years.
Last night she started reading books again, and then she'd actually worked through a rough outline for a script. Of course her blondness would hinder her quest for writing and directing, but eventually they would take her seriously.
Early in her career she'd used the dumb blonde skit to her advantage, now the time neared for her smarts to be the main attraction and not her face. Financially, she could afford to never work again. Mentally, the lack of direction would drive her bonkers.
Delanie rolled over and let the sun warm her back. The tropical trees swayed around her in the gentle breeze. The scent of the ocean clung to her nostrils and competed with the fragrance of the frangipani and marlberry. Her eyes closed, and her mind slowed. This month of rest and relaxation without any interruption would give her the edge she needed.
The skin on the back of her neck crawled. Her head popped up as she opened her eyes, looking through the trees and out into the deep blue of the water. A boat drew close to the island, its white sail snapping in the wind. Maybe they would leave, but then again maybe not.
In one angry motion she jumped off the chair and pulled on her t-shirt. Damn it, she wanted nothing to do with any guests. Time to go down to the dock and run them off.
Copyright Sara Thacker 2011
May 2, 2011
Welcome to Thriller Author
This blog is dedicated to the writing's of Sara Thacker. Check out my books on Amazon. So here's how this is going to work. Every other day I'm going to post an part of my book, Red Skhye In Morning. Red Skhye in Morning is a totally new book that I'm publishing here on Blogger. I own the copyright and expect you all to play nice. Please don't copy my book and place it on your blog.
Red Skhye In Morning Prologue
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Prologue
Breathe deep. Take it all in. Salt. Sand. Palm trees. Wet wood with barnacles. Feel it all. And then take in the beautiful blond.
The thrill of the chase shot down the back of his neck, making him tingle from the tips of his fingers to the bottom of his bare feet. He swallowed twice, calming the trippy excitement fuzzing his thoughts.
Through the view of his night scope she moved from the bright yellow kitchen to the whitewashed deck. He zoomed in, knowing exactly what he would find. She would eat chicken tonight, just like last night.
The drink, white zinfandel, the napkin, linen.
Her entry alarm code, four-one-three-two. Predictable.
Her schedule, the same every day. Her life, boring.
A mosquito buzzed past his ears, trying to distract him from his target. But he wouldn't give in. The heat, the rain, the impossibly tiny insects could all attack, but he would hold firm and keep her in his sights.
Only a few days to learn her ways. The time spent getting to know her was much shorter than he thought it should have taken. This woman, this beauty of beauties, should have been more of a challenge. But no such luck. Instead, this woman sucked.
The investment weighed heavily in his thoughts. He could step away, leave her be, but that would be failure on his part, and he wasn't a failure.
Time to move forward. Not that he'd take her from her bed. No, he'd make her ache with desire. Make her want to come to him and relax into his arms before he showed her exactly what she was worth.
The interest was there. The other day at the grocery he'd seen her shy glances while she pretended to inspect the tomatoes. Of course the store run-in had all been pretense. Just like at the restaurant and on the morning jogs. Lost in the memory of the grocery event he closed his eyes. She'd been dressed in white slacks and a yellow top that showed too much cleavage. The girl wanted him. Her eyes had been smoky and dangerous. Something significant happened in the store, a connection that couldn't be denied.
He blinked, forgetting his surroundings for a moment. It was dark out, not overly lit like the store. Disorientation socked him in the gut. A quick check on his prey showed that she was almost done with dinner. Damn it, the fantasy had lasted too long. Concentration was key to his operation.
Maybe he should take a break. But no, this wasn't his fault. It was hers. She wasn't exciting. Boring was more like it. He focused, concentrating on the girl and her ministrations to her meal. He wouldn't blow this one. Damn it, he needed a smooth operation. Restraining himself, he forgot the store and the way she'd looked at him, instead he focused on the mission.
All alone, no one to share the evening with, her manners didn't falter. Her back stayed ramrod straight. Her fork and knife held in such a way that even the most snootiest and etiquette-obsessed person couldn't find fault. A small sip of white wine then a pat with a dry-cleaned napkin across that dainty pink slit of her mouth.
Soon he would have command of every inch of her body. First on the agenda -- strip her bare. Not only of her clothes but her defenses too. She would see everything she knew to be true was false and every block she built her life on was crumbling sand that would wash away under his barrage of truths.
Her phone rang, but she didn't answer. Her ex-boyfriend most likely. The looser. It had been easy break her confidence in him. A well-placed note. A Photoshoped candid.
Ahh, dinner was finished. He ignored the mosquitoes and raised his bottle of water, mimicking her motions, saluting and cementing their relationship. He giggled, relishing in the triumph of victory. Tomorrow the games would begin.
Copyright Sara Thacker 2011
Prologue
Breathe deep. Take it all in. Salt. Sand. Palm trees. Wet wood with barnacles. Feel it all. And then take in the beautiful blond.
The thrill of the chase shot down the back of his neck, making him tingle from the tips of his fingers to the bottom of his bare feet. He swallowed twice, calming the trippy excitement fuzzing his thoughts.
Through the view of his night scope she moved from the bright yellow kitchen to the whitewashed deck. He zoomed in, knowing exactly what he would find. She would eat chicken tonight, just like last night.
The drink, white zinfandel, the napkin, linen.
Her entry alarm code, four-one-three-two. Predictable.
Her schedule, the same every day. Her life, boring.
A mosquito buzzed past his ears, trying to distract him from his target. But he wouldn't give in. The heat, the rain, the impossibly tiny insects could all attack, but he would hold firm and keep her in his sights.
Only a few days to learn her ways. The time spent getting to know her was much shorter than he thought it should have taken. This woman, this beauty of beauties, should have been more of a challenge. But no such luck. Instead, this woman sucked.
The investment weighed heavily in his thoughts. He could step away, leave her be, but that would be failure on his part, and he wasn't a failure.
Time to move forward. Not that he'd take her from her bed. No, he'd make her ache with desire. Make her want to come to him and relax into his arms before he showed her exactly what she was worth.
The interest was there. The other day at the grocery he'd seen her shy glances while she pretended to inspect the tomatoes. Of course the store run-in had all been pretense. Just like at the restaurant and on the morning jogs. Lost in the memory of the grocery event he closed his eyes. She'd been dressed in white slacks and a yellow top that showed too much cleavage. The girl wanted him. Her eyes had been smoky and dangerous. Something significant happened in the store, a connection that couldn't be denied.
He blinked, forgetting his surroundings for a moment. It was dark out, not overly lit like the store. Disorientation socked him in the gut. A quick check on his prey showed that she was almost done with dinner. Damn it, the fantasy had lasted too long. Concentration was key to his operation.
Maybe he should take a break. But no, this wasn't his fault. It was hers. She wasn't exciting. Boring was more like it. He focused, concentrating on the girl and her ministrations to her meal. He wouldn't blow this one. Damn it, he needed a smooth operation. Restraining himself, he forgot the store and the way she'd looked at him, instead he focused on the mission.
All alone, no one to share the evening with, her manners didn't falter. Her back stayed ramrod straight. Her fork and knife held in such a way that even the most snootiest and etiquette-obsessed person couldn't find fault. A small sip of white wine then a pat with a dry-cleaned napkin across that dainty pink slit of her mouth.
Soon he would have command of every inch of her body. First on the agenda -- strip her bare. Not only of her clothes but her defenses too. She would see everything she knew to be true was false and every block she built her life on was crumbling sand that would wash away under his barrage of truths.
Her phone rang, but she didn't answer. Her ex-boyfriend most likely. The looser. It had been easy break her confidence in him. A well-placed note. A Photoshoped candid.
Ahh, dinner was finished. He ignored the mosquitoes and raised his bottle of water, mimicking her motions, saluting and cementing their relationship. He giggled, relishing in the triumph of victory. Tomorrow the games would begin.
Copyright Sara Thacker 2011
December 23, 2010
Working on New Book
So in January I'm doing a writecation. Four days of writing and nothing else. I'll be sequestered away, spending the days only writing. Hopefully I won't go crazy.
October 14, 2010
Found a book to read
So after searching for something good to read I finally settled on Candace Haven's Like A Charm. Why? Because reading Candace's books are like sitting down with an old friend.
I met Candace at an airport in Reno at 12:30 in the morning. She was sitting on the floor and for some reason we started talking. She is a hoot. Some people write funny but they aren't when you talk to them, but not Candace.
So I picked up Like A Charm and I immediately felt the comfort of sitting over coffee with an old friend. Who is your favorite comfort author?
I met Candace at an airport in Reno at 12:30 in the morning. She was sitting on the floor and for some reason we started talking. She is a hoot. Some people write funny but they aren't when you talk to them, but not Candace.
So I picked up Like A Charm and I immediately felt the comfort of sitting over coffee with an old friend. Who is your favorite comfort author?
October 12, 2010
Looking for a Goodread
I'm looking for a good book today. I've finished judging a published author's contest and now I want something else to read. Maybe one of my favorites, someone who I really dig.
Not that the author's contest had only bad authors, some of the books I judged were very good. One of the authors I'm buying her second book, she was that good. But right now I want the comfort of an author I know.
I do like to try new authors. Usually ones from small presses. I find that the small press authors are less filtered, and more raw than books that come out of the big houses. If you are looking for a new author, try a small press author. There are loads of good books out there, find one and read.
Not that the author's contest had only bad authors, some of the books I judged were very good. One of the authors I'm buying her second book, she was that good. But right now I want the comfort of an author I know.
I do like to try new authors. Usually ones from small presses. I find that the small press authors are less filtered, and more raw than books that come out of the big houses. If you are looking for a new author, try a small press author. There are loads of good books out there, find one and read.
Red Skhye In Morning
Introducing Red Skhye in Morning. Delanie Skhye is desperate for paparazzi free time. Samuel Taylor is on break from work. He finds Delanie alone on a private island, but something is wrong. A killer
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