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Enduring the Wild Sparks
The fourth book in my Wild Sparks series, Enduring the Wild Sparks, has been added to Goodreads! The blurb and the spring 2016 release date will be coming soon, so don't forget to add Enduring to your TBR!
Excerpt from UNHINGED
“Amos Fucking Vaughn.”
Watching Greg Rodwell deteriorate right in front of my eyes is not a welcomed sight. These past four months with him gone have been rough for a lot of people. Something huge happened on the night of the party. I just can’t pinpoint who it was with and what he did. I only know that the ramifications are far and wide.
After him not showing up for two days without a call, I went to his apartment, but there was no answer. After speaking to the building manager of my concerns and handing him a fifty, he unlocked the apartment, and it was apparent that Rod was no longer in Richmond.
Figuring out he was in Durham was fast and easy, of course. So was connecting with his mother, Lizette, who confirmed Rod had shown up in the middle of the night, offering no explanation for his sudden appearance. I stayed in touch with her, and we agreed to keep our conversations undisclosed, hoping one of us could shed light on his departure from Richmond. She even invited me down to Durham to discreetly observe him. I suppose one could say it was “spying,” but I did have valid reasons to be in Durham. Though, I felt he did not need to know.
Our sister firm is nearby. So, I’ve been working out of that office for the past month. Going into the bar one day to confront him, I ended up sparking an interesting conversation with the owner, Monty Shaw. With his business floundering, I offered my assistance and investment money, a silent partnership for the most part, which also bought his silence from telling Rod I was in town. He was very agreeable to this arrangement.
Setting down my beer, I watch Rod helping customers. Maybe helping is a strong word. Mostly, he made sure nobody was making too much of a mess or stealing liquor from behind the bar. That is obviously his scam.
With his hair somewhat shaggier than he left and having acquired slightly more muscle in his arms from unloading trucks at his day job, Home Depot, he otherwise appears relatively the same. But his actions speak volumes, which is because he doesn’t seem to run that mouth of his like he used to. Here, he keeps to himself, which is surprising since he spoke to Shasta Montgomery more than he does anyone here.
Hadley. I believe she’s the key to this. However, she won’t speak of him, which is a major red flag.
As I nurse my beer, I steadily observe him slowing down and tripping over himself more. For as long as I’ve known Greg Rodwell, I’ve never seen him drunk, or even speak of being drunk, as men his age tend to do, socially, at least.
When he stumbles against Monty for the third time, I sigh, watching his defeat.
“What, Vaughn?”
Looking up from my drink, I don’t answer and only shake my head. I don’t have any words I want to say with everyone listening. But if there’s one thing in which I excel, it’s revealing truths. And I know Rod is hiding one or two.
He frowns at me, now somewhat pale, with his hair sticking to his forehead. Rod sloppily looks over at me, and for a moment, shame is evident. Over his drinking? Something with Hadley? Unsteady, he turns and exits the bar for the kitchen.
Shoving my beer bottle away from me, I tell Monty, “He’s out for the night.”
He nods, watching me with high suspicion. I suppose it’s warranted since I’ve only recently acquired a stake in the bar. It will take some adjustment. For all of us.
Going through the kitchen, I notice the back door is open as the cold air blasts the room. Stepping through the threshold, I check the area around me when movement catches my eye next to the dumpster. Upon closer inspection, I see Rod hunched over, swaying back and forth until he falls over. When I see he doesn’t try to get back up, I go to him, seeing him lying on the ground. “Rod, come on.” I reach down and pull on his arm, but he’s dead weight. Exerting more effort, I pull him to his feet, holding onto him before he falls.
“What do you want, Amos? Haven’t you fucking infested my life enough? Why here? Why now? Why ever?”
“Hold onto my arm,” I instruct as I slowly turn him toward the side of the bar, not inclined to parade him past the other patrons. “Take small steps.”
“Take a hike!” he whines but keeps walking. “I don’t need your help. I’m not a damsel, and you’re no prince.”
“Keep walking.” He’s surprisingly quiet after that, and when I reach my Land Rover, Rod doesn’t fight me when I help him into the back seat. I let go of his arm, and he falls over, sprawling out. Forgoing the law and safety tonight, I shut the door and drive the six miles to Lizette Abrams’ house on Medford Road.
Pulling into the driveway, I turn off the car and twisting in my seat, I watch Rod for a few moments, wondering if I’m doing the right thing, coming here. He’s a grown man but seeing what I did tonight, I arrived just in time.
Ren Alexander
Watching Greg Rodwell deteriorate right in front of my eyes is not a welcomed sight. These past four months with him gone have been rough for a lot of people. Something huge happened on the night of the party. I just can’t pinpoint who it was with and what he did. I only know that the ramifications are far and wide.
After him not showing up for two days without a call, I went to his apartment, but there was no answer. After speaking to the building manager of my concerns and handing him a fifty, he unlocked the apartment, and it was apparent that Rod was no longer in Richmond.
Figuring out he was in Durham was fast and easy, of course. So was connecting with his mother, Lizette, who confirmed Rod had shown up in the middle of the night, offering no explanation for his sudden appearance. I stayed in touch with her, and we agreed to keep our conversations undisclosed, hoping one of us could shed light on his departure from Richmond. She even invited me down to Durham to discreetly observe him. I suppose one could say it was “spying,” but I did have valid reasons to be in Durham. Though, I felt he did not need to know.
Our sister firm is nearby. So, I’ve been working out of that office for the past month. Going into the bar one day to confront him, I ended up sparking an interesting conversation with the owner, Monty Shaw. With his business floundering, I offered my assistance and investment money, a silent partnership for the most part, which also bought his silence from telling Rod I was in town. He was very agreeable to this arrangement.
Setting down my beer, I watch Rod helping customers. Maybe helping is a strong word. Mostly, he made sure nobody was making too much of a mess or stealing liquor from behind the bar. That is obviously his scam.
With his hair somewhat shaggier than he left and having acquired slightly more muscle in his arms from unloading trucks at his day job, Home Depot, he otherwise appears relatively the same. But his actions speak volumes, which is because he doesn’t seem to run that mouth of his like he used to. Here, he keeps to himself, which is surprising since he spoke to Shasta Montgomery more than he does anyone here.
Hadley. I believe she’s the key to this. However, she won’t speak of him, which is a major red flag.
As I nurse my beer, I steadily observe him slowing down and tripping over himself more. For as long as I’ve known Greg Rodwell, I’ve never seen him drunk, or even speak of being drunk, as men his age tend to do, socially, at least.
When he stumbles against Monty for the third time, I sigh, watching his defeat.
“What, Vaughn?”
Looking up from my drink, I don’t answer and only shake my head. I don’t have any words I want to say with everyone listening. But if there’s one thing in which I excel, it’s revealing truths. And I know Rod is hiding one or two.
He frowns at me, now somewhat pale, with his hair sticking to his forehead. Rod sloppily looks over at me, and for a moment, shame is evident. Over his drinking? Something with Hadley? Unsteady, he turns and exits the bar for the kitchen.
Shoving my beer bottle away from me, I tell Monty, “He’s out for the night.”
He nods, watching me with high suspicion. I suppose it’s warranted since I’ve only recently acquired a stake in the bar. It will take some adjustment. For all of us.
Going through the kitchen, I notice the back door is open as the cold air blasts the room. Stepping through the threshold, I check the area around me when movement catches my eye next to the dumpster. Upon closer inspection, I see Rod hunched over, swaying back and forth until he falls over. When I see he doesn’t try to get back up, I go to him, seeing him lying on the ground. “Rod, come on.” I reach down and pull on his arm, but he’s dead weight. Exerting more effort, I pull him to his feet, holding onto him before he falls.
“What do you want, Amos? Haven’t you fucking infested my life enough? Why here? Why now? Why ever?”
“Hold onto my arm,” I instruct as I slowly turn him toward the side of the bar, not inclined to parade him past the other patrons. “Take small steps.”
“Take a hike!” he whines but keeps walking. “I don’t need your help. I’m not a damsel, and you’re no prince.”
“Keep walking.” He’s surprisingly quiet after that, and when I reach my Land Rover, Rod doesn’t fight me when I help him into the back seat. I let go of his arm, and he falls over, sprawling out. Forgoing the law and safety tonight, I shut the door and drive the six miles to Lizette Abrams’ house on Medford Road.
Pulling into the driveway, I turn off the car and twisting in my seat, I watch Rod for a few moments, wondering if I’m doing the right thing, coming here. He’s a grown man but seeing what I did tonight, I arrived just in time.
Ren Alexander
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Ren's Ramblings
Ren Alexander is the author of the Wild Sparks series, The Keys to Jericho, and the upcoming UNSCREWED.
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