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NYT, USA Today & Wall Street Journal Bestselling Author Jennifer Probst’s All The Way is Featured in Today’s Free Romance Excerpt – Over 65 Rave Reviews

Last week we announced that Jennifer Probst’s All The Way is our Romance of the Week and the sponsor of thousands of great bargains in the Romance category: over 200 free titles, over 600 quality 99-centers, and thousands more that you can read for free through the Kindle Lending Library if you have Amazon Prime!

Now we’re back to offer our weekly free Romance excerpt, and if you aren’t among those who have downloaded All The Way, you’re in for a real treat:

All the Way

by Jennifer Probst

4.6 stars – 70 Reviews
Text-to-Speech: Enabled
Or check out the Audible.com version of All the Way
in its Audible Audio Edition, Unabridged!
Here’s the set-up:
The food critic…
Miranda Storme never expected to see Gavin Luciano again. Three years ago, they had an intense affair—and then he bolted. Now he’s back, and Miranda has the pleasure of a little payback: a scathing review of his restaurant. Revenge is a dish best served the first chance you get…
And the restaurateur…
With three months to make his family’s struggling Italian restaurant successful, a bad review is Gavin’s worst nightmare. But this isn’t just about the meal. He’s finally realized what he left behind and is determined to spend the next eight weeks proving himself to her in the kitchen…and in the bedroom! This is one dish she won’t be able to refuse…

And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free excerpt:

“Ouch. Stephen, that hurt, you devil.”

The little boy screeched in delight as his pudgy fist came away

with a few strands of red hair. Miranda rubbed her scalp where

her new bald spot lay. “Manda, do it again!”

She shook her head and swung him high in her arms. “Don’t

think so, flirt. If that’s how you show affection for a girl, you’re

gonna be in some trouble.”

He kicked his feet and laughed as he played the familiar game

of airplane. “Fly me, fly me!”

The doorbell rang, and Miranda made a landing noise as she

settled him against one hip. “Come on, flirt. Daddy’s here to pick

you up. Said you were going to the zoo today.”

“Aminals!” he shouted. “Daddy said I could see the lion in

The Wizard of Oz.”

“That’s right. Lions and tigers and bears, oh my.” She grinned

and threw open the door. “And here’s your—oh, my God!”

“Oh my God,” the toddler boy mimicked.

Gavin took one look at the toddler perched on her hip and

grew pale. “Oh, my God.”

Silence fell between them as they glanced at one another, and

Miranda tried to gather her wits. She knew writing the column

had been a risk. With Gavin’s massive ego, she bet he thought she

wrote it in the hopes he would contact her. Still, revenge had been

too sweet to ignore.

But she’d never expected him to show up on her doorstep.

“What are you doing here?” She moved her head away as

Stephen reached for another red curl. “How did you find me?”

Gavin’s gaze never left the boy’s face. His voice came

out ragged. “I needed to talk to you. We never finished our

conversation.”

Miranda snorted. “No, you just can’t handle a woman walking

away from you. I was finished with the conversation. I think you’d

better go.”

She tried to shut the door but he blocked it with the toe of his

leather shoe. “We have a lot more things to discuss.” He studied

the toddler. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Stephen must have sensed the growing tension and let out a

cry. She spoke softly. “You’re upsetting him. I don’t have time for

this right now.”

Gavin’s olive skin seemed to grow a shade paler. He propped

himself up against the edge of the door. “I’m a little upset myself.”

“Look, if you have a problem with the review, take it up with

my editor. Every word was valid and—what’s the matter?”

He ran one hand through his hair. Oaky brown strands

flopped across his forehead. “Can I sit down for a minute?”

She opened her mouth to tell him no, but he moved through

her apartment and settled on the sofa. Odd, he looked almost sick

as he stared at the toddler. Almost as if…

Understanding dawned. He thought Stephen was hers! The

humor of the situation put her back in a good mood. Good. He

believed she had a husband tucked away in the back room and

a full, happy life. The faster she got him out of here, the better

off she’d be. He’d never bother her again. His monstrous ego

probably shuddered at the thought she’d moved on without him.

“Are you happy?”

Miranda sucked in her breath as she caught the look on his

face. Raw hunger. As if he wished the child was theirs. But of

course, she was imagining things. Gavin told her many times he

didn’t want children. Another reason she’d never told him the

truth or tried to contact him.

She opened her mouth to tell the truth but the doorbell rang.

Miranda took a deep breath and let Andy in. “Hey, sorry I’m

late, but Laura’s dance class ran over— Oops, didn’t know you

had company.”

“Gavin stopped by to discuss a few things.”

Andy gave him a nod, then crouched and held out his arms.

“Come here, buddy.”

The toddler ran toward his father and flung himself into the

embrace. Andy swung him up, the look of fatherly pride gleaming

in his eyes, but she made sure not to glance back. “You better get

going if you want to have enough time at the zoo.”

“Was he any trouble?”

She absently rubbed her head and grinned. “Of course not,

he’s an absolute angel.”

Andy laughed. “You’re a great liar. Come on buddy, time to

see the animals.”

“Aminals! Bye, Manda.”

She gave the child a kiss and shut the door behind them. Then

slowly turned around.

Electricity pulsed and crackled through the air. One very tall,

very pissed off male rose from the couch and closed the distance

between them. She watched in fascination as he stopped right

before her. His jaw clenched with tension. “You should have told

me.”

Her eyes widened. “You come storming into my apartment,

make the assumption Stephen is mine, and you’re mad at me?

You didn’t even give me a minute to tell the truth.”

He frowned. “You know what I thought.”

“What’s the matter, Gavin? Did you really believe I’ve wasted

the past few years waiting for you to contact me again? Sorry to

disappoint you, but I’ve moved on with my life. Now get out.”

“Soon. Why did you do a review on my family’s restaurant?”

She moved away and walked into the kitchen. Grabbing the

kettle with unsteady fingers, she filled the pot with water and

flicked on the flame. “All of my reviews aren’t planned. I do many

impromptu visits.”

He followed. “Why do I have an idea you didn’t plan to write

up Mia Casa until our encounter?”

Miranda focused on her soothing ritual. She took down a

box of green tea bags, hoping the magical healing qualities of the

herbs soothed her. One delicate teacup embroidered with roses

clicked on the small plate. Sugar, milk, lemon. The tea set was an

antique find in a second-hand shop and came from royalty. She

liked to imagine a queen sipping the brew with ladylike restraint,

her emotions firmly in check as she relaxed within the constraints

of tradition.

God, how she longed to be that person. God, how hard she’d

tried to change. “Does this really matter? What do you really

want, Gavin?”

“I want you to do another review.”

She removed the kettle and poured. Fragrant puffs of smoke

rose from the cups. She picked one up and handed it to him. “I

see.”

“Your column was personal. Not up to your standards, Red.

You always talk to the owner after a review to see if he or she

had any comments, especially if you decide not to recommend

the restaurant. You’re usually fair, but you didn’t write one decent

comment about Mia Casa.”

“I liked the bread.”

He snorted. “I understand you wanted revenge. But your

review can hurt my family, and they have nothing to do with

the mess I made out of our relationship. I need a fair deal. Do a

second visit, unscheduled.”

Her will shook, then stilled. He was a master at closing a deal

and getting what he wanted. He rose up from the ranks at demonic

speed, and became the top closer for a valid reason. He never

took no for an answer. Even now, she fought her natural ability to

surrender, and allow herself the pleasure of his approving smile,

or the flash of satisfaction in his eyes. He was Dom material down

to the bone, and she refused to play the game any longer. This

time, he’d never get what he wanted. It was the last shred of pride

left, and she’d be damned if she showed any weakness.

“No.”

He blinked. “No?”

She placed her teacup on the table. “I’m not doing a second

review. I’m sorry it will affect your family, but I was fair, impartial,

and I told the truth.” She quenched the tiny flicker of guilt and

soothed herself with the knowledge she followed the basic

regulations of rating a restaurant. Showing Gavin a lesson was just

an extra perk in the process. “I told my readers I never tried the

dessert. I called to speak with your head chef and get his comment.

Talking with the owners is not a necessity, and doesn’t make or

break a review. My motto is clear. I never do second reviews. Our

business is concluded—on all matters. If you’ll excuse me, I have

a number of things to do this afternoon. You know the way out.”

She took the cup from his hands, set it on the counter, and

walked away. A rush of triumph raced through her. She was free.

This time around, her old love was not in control, and it probably

drove him crazy.

Andy was right. Revenge was sweet.

She stood by the door, ramrod straight, but he didn’t move. Just

leaned his hip against the island with a casual laziness. Miranda

knew better. He seemed to assess his options with lightning speed,

before settling on his new path. “Wanna know how I felt when I

saw you with Andy’s son?”

“Don’t.”

“What I was really mad about is how I felt at the idea of you

having a child with another man. I hated it.”

Numbness overtook the anger until she felt limp. Her voice

was toneless when she finally answered. “What we had wasn’t

real. It was just sex.”

He pushed away from the counter and crossed the room.

“You’re wrong, Red. That’s what I wanted to believe. Hell, I wanted

to believe it so bad I traveled a thousand miles across the globe

to prove I didn’t love you. Nothing worked. I made my money,

accomplished my goals, and tried to be happy without you.” He

paused. “But I never was. When Pop called and asked for help, all

I could think of was the idea of running into you again.”

“You expect me to believe you took three years to realize you

love me? Why didn’t you fly home immediately after you came to

this startling conclusion?”

“It wasn’t like that. We were at a crossroads, and I didn’t want

to interfere with your own goals.”

“Very convenient.”

“It’s the truth. You were off to study at the culinary. I had just

scored a partnership. I completely panicked and made the biggest

mistake of my life.”

She snorted. “Yeah, so big you jet-set around the world, being

miserable.”

He seemed to think over her statement, and a misty longing

edged his voice. “Most of the time, yes. But I decided to take

some time off and travel to India. Everything started to crystallize

there.”

“You went to India?”

He nodded. “I was taught a different way of life. I learned

I’d been trying to find myself on the outside, but I needed to find

out who I was on the inside. I didn’t track you down because I

thought it was too late.”

“Right.”

He groaned. “I have a feeling you don’t believe me, but I

never expected this to be easy. I didn’t want to come barging into

your life again, Red, when there was a good chance you’d already

forgotten me. Gone on with your life.”

“I have, Gavin. That’s the whole point to this conversation.

Unfortunately, it didn’t stop you from cornering me in the

restaurant, or leaving after I asked you to go.”

“Because I knew it wasn’t over the moment you looked into

my eyes.”

The tears were trapped deep inside, but she refused to let

them surface. Instead, she faced him with a deep calm. “You’re

too late.”

“I don’t believe that.”

He stepped in front of her and laid both palms flat against

the wood, trapping her head in between them. She let out a soft

whoosh as the air left her body—faced with his full power. His

warm breath struck her lips, a delicious mixture of whiskey and

mint.

Miranda realized he was still in control.

The gleam in his eyes reflected a knowledge he affected her

in the most primitive way possible and intended to use it to his

advantage. The spicy scent of him teased her senses. She decided

the best way to play the scene was flippant. “Seems we’ve been

here before, huh? Me, Tarzan. You, Jane. Simply charming.”

His lower lips quirked. “You always were a hellcat, Red. I

never knew whether to strangle you or drag you to the nearest

bed. The latter proved more pleasant.”

She smiled sweetly. “I wouldn’t do a second review if you

offered me a million dollars. I wouldn’t do a second review if I

was sick, and dying, and you were the only man to help me. If you

were the last man on Earth standing between me and a nuclear

bomb blast I wouldn’t—”

“I get the message. You won’t do the review. Fine, I’ll change

your mind later.” He ignored her outraged squeak and continued.

“Time to take the first step, sweetheart. I’m going to prove your

body hasn’t forgotten me, even if you want to deny your feelings.”

Her heart thundered and skipped like Derby day. “Arrogant,

aren’t we? You were good, babe, but not good enough to span

three years. I’ve had better.” Did her nose grow longer from her

lie?

He lifted her chin up, forcing her to face him. Grim resolution

shot from blue-gray depths. His body heat was almost tangible,

tempting her to surrender and reach out to touch him. “Ouch.

That’s gonna make me up my game. But I want more than your

body. There’s been an empty ache in my gut from the day I walked

away from you. I searched Godforsaken places to fill it and I never

got close. Until now. I want another chance, Miranda. I want to

know how you changed and who you are. I have eight weeks to

prove myself again and I’m not wasting another second.”

He closed the inch of space between them by pressing solid

muscles against her curves. His head lowered. Carved lips stopped

inches from hers, and his breath rushed across her trembling

mouth. “Tell me what you want, baby.”

The familiar command took her back. Nights of naked skin

and sweat and orgasms. She gasped at his cruelty. “Damn you to

hell.”

His hands slid down her body to link her fingers within his.

“Already been there.”

His mouth stamped over hers.

I’m not going to respond. I’m not going to respond. I’m not going

to—

The mantra pounded over and over as his lips skated gently

across hers. She steeled herself for the invasion and vowed to

fight, but it never came. As if he had all the time in the world to

re-discover her taste and texture, his mouth skimmed…pressed…

retreated…until an unconscious moan rose from her throat and

her fingers tightened around him.

Never changing the force of his teasing kiss, he returned the

pressure of her fingers, squeezing, then slowly unlacing as he broke

contact of skin against skin. One thumb massaged the sensitive

flesh of her palm, then stroked upward to press into her thudding

pulse point. Her hand flexed, and every inch of her body jumped

to life. Her nipples rose against the cotton of her shirt. Denim

brushed against denim as he shifted his weight. His belt buckle

scraped against her lower belly, and caused a rush of liquid heat

to pound between her thighs. Her lips parted under the delicious

persuasion of his, but still he held back, tracing the corners of her

mouth with the tip of his tongue.

She ached for an intense strength she could fight. Instead,

he snared her with a delicate heat that promised her a world of

sensation, as if he knew her body would always welcome him

back.

She tilted her head and allowed him access, but he ignored

her request. Suddenly she gazed into an ocean of heat, burning

with a demand and hunger. “You have to say the words, Miranda.”

The silky command raked across her ears. “Invite me in.”

Her hips arched upward. He was a real life vampire, seducing

her to opening her window so he could bring her pleasure and

steal her soul. “No.”

The game continued. His teeth nibbled on her bottom lip,

then soothed with his tongue, always refusing to kiss her the way

she needed. One foot nudged her legs apart so he could angle his

hips more intimately against hers. The hard length of his erection

settled between her thighs. His hands stroked each finger with a

completeness that told her he would give as much attention to

other parts of her body. Parts that ached for him. Drugged up with

bliss, she moaned and reached for him.

“Is this what you want?” he murmured.

She shook with rage and passion and wanting. “I hate you.”

He buried his hands in her hair. “I know.”

“Yes.”

With a muttered curse, his mouth came down on hers. His

tongue plundered the seam of her lips and re-staked his claim.

The taste of him drove her mad for more as he explored and

conquered every slick, satiny corner of her mouth. She gave him

free access and met each thrust of his tongue with her own. Her

breasts were crushed against the muscled wall of his chest. The

gentle teasing turned into an inferno. His hips rocked against hers.

She arched and demanded more.

“Let me touch you.”

She didn’t need to say the word. In a moment, her shirt was

unbuttoned and parted. A deep-seated groan rumbled from his

chest at her lack of a bra, and then his fingers stroked her swollen

flesh.

“Gavin!”

“I know, baby, I know.” One thumb raked across the ruby

crest and he lowered his lips to take her in his mouth. He bit and

licked, pushing her closer into a seething pit of sensation.

“I’ve thought about you like this,” he whispered. “Every

night climbing into bed I dreamed of touching you, hearing you

cry out in pleasure.” He nibbled on her neck as his hands lifted

her breasts and rubbed her nipples. “Let me show you how much

I need you. Let me make love to you and you’ll see we belong

together. You’re safe with me, sweetheart, I swear it.”

I love you, Gavin, I love you…

He’d left before, and he’d leave again. Was she so weak-willed

and pathetic she’d allow him to repeat the same move three years

later?

Her skin chilled as if steeped in ice water. Slowly, she reached

out and pushed against his chest. He looked up.

“Nice try. But a good screw still won’t make me do a second

review.”

“We were always better than a good screw and you know it.

Don’t try to deny the connection we have.”

She twisted her lips. “Orgasms don’t make a connection,

Gavin. I’ve moved beyond that now. Maybe it’s time to up your

game.”

He jerked back. Torment shone briefly in those eyes, then

disappeared. “God, what happened to you? How did you become

so cold?”

She calmly buttoned her shirt. “I was taught by the best.”

He cursed and rubbed his forehead. “I deserved that, I guess.”

She didn’t answer, just leaned against the door and watched

him.

“Do you know what karma is, Miranda?” He let out a

humorless laugh. “In India they believe karma is the result of your

past lives and actions. You re-connect with people who you’ve

known before.”

He glanced over but she refused to answer.

“Karma is like destiny. When two people discover each other

from past lives, they form a deep connection. Three years ago I

was only willing to have an affair. I’d decided I wanted more from

my life than to run the family business, settle down, and have

children. I craved freedom, and I thought that came with money

and power. Maybe before if I had stayed, I would’ve ended up

hurting you in a different way. Because I wasn’t ready. Now I am.”

He reached out and pushed back a stray curl from her face. “I

want a chance to show you the man I really am. I want a chance

to make it up to you.”

Her lower lip trembled. The memory of those weeks after he

left still bruised at a touch. The loneliness and fear. The knowledge

she was alone and hadn’t been good enough. Was never good

enough. “It’s too late.”

She waited for his final acceptance. His hand dropped away.

He opened the door and paused. “You’re wrong. You’re going to

welcome me back into your bed. You’re going to trust me again.

Because it’s our karma.”

Then he left.

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Here’s the set-up:

Alyssa Walworth is young, polished, wealthy and drop dead gorgeous; and Jake Dombrowski couldn’t be more in love with her. So much in love, she’s got him going every-which–way in her quest to have the Beverly Hills wedding of the year.
Jake’s best friends, Gideon and Conrad, see the marriage as nothing more than the first step toward divorce. They try to convince Jake in the conventional manner, but Jake won’t listen, he’s too much in love. Stronger methods are needed, so Conrad and Gideon kidnap Jake on the night of his bachelor party, and leave him chained to the radiator in the apartment of adult film star, Jailbait Jordan. There they do all in their power to convince Jake that Alyssa, the woman of his dreams, will be nothing less than a nightmare.
It all doesn’t work out in any way anybody ever expected.WHUPPED is a funny, sardonic, R-rated, romantic comedy in reverse. It explores the nature and limits of friendship, love’s expectations, marriage, what we want, and what we are willing to give up to get it. It will leave you laughing, thinking and maybe crying.

5-Star Amazon Reviews

“I highly recommend this book. Besides being so funny that I laughed out loud several times, I loved how each chapter was written from the point of view of a different character.”

“I really enjoyed Whupped! It was funny and well written…best of all totally unbelievable but you would wish that your best friends would do for you! Fast read and thoroughly entertaining! Good job Mr. Stevens!”

“Laughed out loud all the way through! Shed a bright light on male-bonding that I could never understand in my two boys and how their interpretations of events differ so drastically from my two girls.”

About The Author

Jim Stevens was born in the East, grew up in the West, schooled in the Northwest and spent twenty-three winters in the Midwest. He has been an advertising copywriter, playwright, filmmaker, stand-up comedian and television producer. He is the author of WHUPPED and the RELUCTANT DICK series of mysteries. Jim claims that you can open to any page, in any of his books, and you’ll be laughing in less than two minutes; unless you are a very, very slow reader.

Jim can be contacted at jimstevenswriter@gmail.com

(This is a sponsored post.)

Big Savings in Today’s Kindle Daily Deals For Tuesday, Apr. 9 – New Bestsellers All Priced at $1.99 or Less! plus Carlyle Clark’s The Black Song Inside – Free!

But first, a word from … Today’s Sponsor

4.4 stars – 7 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

Shortlisted for the 2012 Faulkner-Wisdom Award

Newly engaged private investigators Atticus Wynn and Rosemary Sanchez have seen the dark and violent side of life. Atticus’s dry wit is born of a traumatic childhood that’s left him emotionally scarred and estranged from his homicide detective sister. The medals Rosemary earned during her tour of duty in Iraq are little reward for returning home to San Diego missing a leg and tormented by PTSD and her continuing failure to save her younger brother from his own violent nature. Still, nothing they’ve been through has prepared them for an explosive murder investigation that tests the couple’s trust as they struggle to solve a case where the best result leaves them in prison or dead.

Atticus’s manipulative and gorgeous ex-girlfriend, Claire, bursts back into their lives wielding a secret about Rosemary’s family that she exploits to force the couple into investigating the execution-style slaying of her lover. The case thrusts Atticus and Rosemary headlong into the world of human trafficking and drug smuggling as well as rendering them pawns in Tijuana Cartel captain Armando Villanueva’s bloody bid to take over the Cartel. Villanueva Machiavellian scheme sends one of his minions, Rosemary’s own gangsta brother, after Atticus, and as if that weren’t bad enough, Villanueva dispatches “The Priest”, a former child soldier for a Colombian rebel group who is now a messianic mercenary whose religious psychosis has launched him on a trajectory that can only end in mayhem.

The Black Song Inside is a vivid crime thriller rife with the murder and madness, melded with gallows humor and the heroism of two flawed protagonists who, in struggling to unravel a skein of human suffering, learn the nature of redemption and the ability to forgive others and themselves.

Each day’s Kindle Daily Deal is sponsored by one paid title on Kindle Nation. We encourage you to support our sponsors and thank you for considering them.

and now … Today’s Kindle Daily Deal!

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Don’t miss today’s Kindle Nation eBook of the Day:

“A juicy mystery that deserves to be the beach read of the summer.”– New York Newsday

 

1 Ragged Ridge Road

by David Richards and Leonard Foglia
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4.3 stars – 18 Reviews
Or currently FREE for Amazon Prime Members Via the Kindle Lending Library
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled

 

Here’s the set-up:

“Tasty enough to tempt you into wanting…more” – The New York Times

“A juicy mystery that deserves to be the beach read of the summer.”- New York Newsday

The once-glorious mansion needs repair, but everything about it – the chestnut moldings, the soaring foyer, the grand staircase and twenty-two rooms-filled Carol Roblins with hope from the moment she saw it. Maybe a fresh start would improve the relationship with Blake and their learning-disabled son, Sammy, giving their crumbling marriage one last chance. But before they can resolve their tensions, Blake leaves for a military assignment in Europe. Alone with Sammy in their new home, Carol delves into her restoration, fired by a dream of opening a bed and breakfast. As she recovers long lost blueprints and researches the mansion’s history, she learns it was once home to a storybook couple and a shocking murder.

“This coauthored debut adroitly constructed . . . eerily riveting . . . a cleaver tale with resonant irony.” – Publishers Weekly

“Take this absorbing book to the beach but be sure to get home before dark.” – Kathy Bates

Editorial Reviews

From Kirkus Reviews

In love with the decaying Kennedy mansion in backwoods Fayette, Pennsylvania, Carol Roblins talks her husband into her scheme to buy and restore it. But that’s the last thing she does talk him into, since he’s promptly posted overseas and tells her they both need room to think about their marriage. So Carol and her son Sammy, who’s slowed by Attention Deficit Disorder, set about transforming the mansion into a bed and breakfast called the Christmas Inn. She isn’t daunted by the news that the original Kennedys both died violently on Christmas Eve, 1928, only a year after their romantic wedding, so that even the name she’s chosen for the inn sends chills down the spines of locals with long memories–like Lyle Quinn, the ga-ga son of Charles Kennedy’s banking partner, and historical society stalwart Esther McPherson, who has her own reasons for wanting to stifle Carol’s plans. And when reinforcements arrive–a hunky contractor who slides into spending night after night on the living-room sofa and an even hunkier TV star whose idea of a joke is to tell an on-camera interviewer that he and Carol have solved the Kennedy mystery and will be turning the story into a Movie of the Week- -you can be sure that modern-day trouble will follow. Broadway director Foglia and Washington Post columnist Richards team up for serviceable neo-Gothic shivers, though you have to survive an awful lot of foreboding, toothless flashbacks to get to the payoff. — Copyright ©1997, Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved.

Review

… the literary equivalent of Mom’s tuna noodle casserole: not elevated, not new, but just tasty enough to tempt you into wanting a bit more. — The New York Times Book Review, Malachy Duffy

More About the Author

Leonard Foglia

LEONARD FOGLIA is a theater and opera director as well as librettist. His work has been seen on Broadway, across the country, as well as internationally.

He directed the original Broadway productions of MASTER CLASS, THURGOOD and THE PEOPLE IN THE PICTURE as well as the revivals of WAIT UNTIL DARK and ON GOLDEN POND.

Off Broadway he directed Anna Deavere Smith’s LET ME DOWN EASY as well as the national tour and ONE TOUCH OF VENUS at Encores!

His opera credits include the premiers of three operas by Jake Heggie – MOBY DICK (Dallas Opera), THREE DECEMBERS and THE END OF THE AFFAIR (both Houston grand Opera). His production of Heggie’s DEAD MAN WALKING has been seen across the country.

As a librettist his opera CRUZAR LA CARA DE LA LUNA (To Cross the Face of the Moon) with music by Pepe Martinez had it’s premier at Houston Grand Opera in 2010 and was performed at the Théâtre du Châtelet in Paris in the fall of 2011.
And here, in the comfort of your own browser, is your free sample of  1 Ragged Ridge Road by David Richards and Leonard Foglia:


Enjoy a Free Excerpt From KND Thriller of The Week: Stan Thomas’ The RoCK CLuB – 4.9 Stars on Kindle

On Friday we announced that Stan Thomas’ The RoCK CLuB is our Thriller of the Week and the sponsor of thousands of great bargains in the thriller, mystery, and suspense categories: over 200 free titles, over 600 quality 99-centers, and thousands more that you can read for free through the Kindle Lending Library if you have Amazon Prime!

Now we’re back to offer our weekly free Thriller excerpt:

The RoCK CLuB

by Stan Thomas

4.9 stars – 7 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

In 1982, Clark Ralston was eleven years old, his beloved little brother was nine, and his gorgeous and precocious twin sisters were seven…

Fiends and monsters in most adolescents’ lives are conjured up fantasies or characters from a Grimm Brothers fairy tale or the like, which produce an occasional nightmare. The ogre that bedeviled the Ralston children was not a fleeting fantasy or a dark creature in a bad dream after a scary movie. Their antagonist was an ever-present alcoholic and abusive father.

In an effort to visit some retribution on the source of their fear and angst–something no child should ever feel in their own home–Clark initiates an innocuous little distraction called The Rock Club, an exclusive band of juvenile mercenaries determined to torment and befuddle their father…

Nineteen years later, commitment-challenged Clark is trying to distance himself from his stunning, hero-worshiping sisters. When his girlfriend accepts an internship at San Francisco General Hospital, he jumps at the opportunity to create space between himself and his suffocating siblings and moves from L.A. to the Bay Area.

Clark loves everything about San Francisco: the Victorian architecture of its urban neighborhoods, the cable cars, the eccentricity and diversity of its citizenry, and the plethora of different smells and unique ambiance of the city. He’s even beginning to feel like he’s getting over his fear of commitment until The Rock Club pulls an encore. And this time it’s not so innocent… this time it’s deadly.

And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free excerpt:

Part 1

 

The Affliction

 

 

1982

“PSST… CLARK, YOU AWAKE? Ritchie says girls have babies from the same place they pee. That’s stupid stuff, huh. I told him it was stupid. Ritchie’s wrong, right?”

Clark Ralston tried to suppress his breathing, to refrain from making the slightest of sounds. He lay still, body rigid, eyes closed, willing his brother to lose the ability to speak.

The refrigerator motor clicked on in the kitchen. The dog next door whined, signaling it was time for their neighbor, Wong Li, to get home from work.

“Clark, you awake?” Mark repeated.

So much for mind over matter. Clark rolled to his side to face his brother in the twin bed against the opposite wall. “I am now, doofus. What’re you still doing awake? You’re supposed to be sick. Go to sleep.”

“Ritchie said–”

“I heard you.”

“You weren’t asleep,” Mark charged.

“Shut up.”

Due to a moonless night, the room was pitch black. Good thing, because if Clark could have seen his brother he might have just popped him in the nose.

“What about it?” Mark persisted.

“What?”

“What Ritchie said.”

“Why do you do this, man?”

“What?”

“Wait till I’m almost asleep and then ask a stupid question.”

“Don’t know. It’s like the light clicks off and my brain clicks on, just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

“I’m asking Mother for a night light tomorrow.”

Like a puppy with a chew toy, Mark wouldn’t give up. “Is Ritchie right?”

Clark gushed air through his mouth as he rolled onto his back. “He’s close.”

“Oh, I know where now.”

“Not there, that’s gross.”

“How do you know where they get out?”

“Learned it in school.”

“How come I didn’t learn it?” Mark asked.

“Cuz you’re only nine.”

“You’re just seventeen months older than me, man. How come you know?”

“You’ll learn it next year. Now shut up and go to sleep, or I’ll get Dad.”

“Too late, I already know.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You’re dumber than dumb, Mark, if you think girls crap babies.”

“I’m not dumber! Take it back.”

“Shhh!”

“Take it back, or I’ll tell Mom in the morning.”

“Okay,” Clark said. “I take it back. You’re not dumber than dumb. Now leave me alone.”

“One more question, then you can go to sleep. I promise.”

Clark sighed. “One more, dude, and that’s it.”

“Think Dad will really buy a new car like he said? A Corvette would be cool, man.”

“I don’t give a fart if he buys a new car or not. Now go to sleep, and don’t pee the bed.”

“Clark?”

“What!”

“Don’t call me dude.”

***

The following Saturday Clark came to with a throbbing headache and Merle Haggard proclaiming he turned twenty-one in prison doing life without parole. He hated country. The music, blasting full-volume, stung his ears. He couldn’t think. Cracking his eyelids, he found himself face to label with the wine bottle that had flown from under the driver’s seat and smacked him square in the face when their new Chevy hit the curb doing sixty. His head lay wedged against the passenger door panel, the window lever practically shoved up his nose. A thin rivulet of blood trickled down his forehead from a small gash at his hairline. The shrill vocals and raging banjos of a bluegrass group replaced Merle on the radio, ratcheting up the pain in his head. Pure agony. He tried to reach for the on/off button to kill the music but couldn’t; his arms were pinned under his body. Still a bit disoriented, he thought he heard a different sound but couldn’t be sure. Sounded like high-pitched screams. Singing, or screams? Were his sisters in the car? He remembered now, they were in the back seat. At least they were when they left the bar.

Clark tried again, without success, to move his body. Paralyzed? Panicked, he began gasping for breath as if all the oxygen in the car had suddenly been sucked out. Willing himself to calm down, he filled his lungs with cool coastal air, held it for as long as he could, and then slowly exhaled. Dealing with his dad over the years had made him a pro at pricking the anxiety balloon. Regaining a measure of composure, he understood why he couldn’t move; something pinned him down. Something heavy. Where’s Dad? Must be close, he could smell him. MD 20/20 and Camels created a stink hard to mistake. With considerable effort, he turned his head a bit. No wonder the odor. His dad lay on top of him.

His ears pricked to a noise outside the car. A siren? Siren, or guitar chord? Hard to tell whether there was another sound in the whole world, save for the strident yowling of the bluegrass singers and his sisters’ screaming.

He felt movement against his back.

“Clark? Son?” Lawrence Ralston said. “Can you reach my bottle?”

“No, sir, I can’t move. Why’s the music so loud?”

The pressure lightened.

“Can you get it now?”

“I think so, but I’m bleeding and it’s in my eyes and why’s the music so loud?”

“Just get the damn bottle and give it to me.”

Following orders, he managed to free an arm, grab the half-empty bottle, and pass it over his shoulder. Due to Clark’s position and the blood, his dad appeared as a blurry blob in the peripheral vision of his left eye. The radio experienced momentary dead air, and in the relative quiet he heard the aluminum cap unscrew, the sound of a bobbing Adam’s apple, then the crash of the bottle as it landed in the roadside thicket.

He also heard the unmistakable wail of a siren. Close, maybe a block or two. A couple dogs somewhere tried to match its piercing pitch. He made an effort to shift his position again, but couldn’t.

“Dad, can you please get off me? I’m squished.”

“Need a cigarette.”

“Could you wait? The police will be here soon.” Stupid. He had never known his dad to smoke a cigarette that would make his booze breath disappear; not even Kools.

“And a light,” Lawrence said, stretching for the knob with a burning cigarette etched on it.

“Can you see Elizabeth and Elise? Are they all right?” Clark asked.

“They’re okay.”

“They’re screaming.”

“It’s not their hurt scream, they’re scared. They’ll be fine.”

A slight breeze blowing through the hole the windshield had occupied fifteen minutes earlier pushed Camel smoke into Clark’s nose. The resulting sneeze shot dagger-like pain through both sides of his chest, indicating broken or bruised ribs.

“Something’s wrong with me, Dad. I think I’m dying,” he yelled over an obnoxious car salesman extolling the virtues of a used Mustang.

“Calm down, you’re not dying, idiot.” Lawrence clicked the radio off and the girls’ screams subsided to weak whimpers, as if the same knob controlled them.

A flashlight beam began snooping around the wagon’s interior, exposing its occupants, and a commanding baritone asked, “Is everybody okay in there?”

Clark twisted his head just enough to recognize the emblem on the sleeve of a California Highway Patrol uniform.

“Yeah, we’re okay, Osifer,” Lawrence answered. “Check on my girls in the backseat.”

Clark groaned at his father’s failed attempt to speak without slurring his words.

 

“I can do that!” Elise exclaimed. “I wanna play that game!”

The children sat on the curb watching their father stand on one foot, count backwards, and walk a white line that, judging by his exaggerated balancing act, could have been two hundred feet off the ground. Intermittently his lurching, stumbling body became an eerie silhouette in the headlights of oncoming vehicles.

“He’s not playing a game,” Clark said, his chin perched on arms folded across his knees, tears rolling down his plump cheeks. The pain in his upper body was almost unbearable.

Elizabeth studied her father intently. The identical twin girls, though scared out of their wits, emerged from the demolished metallic-blue station wagon unscathed. “Well, what’s he doing?”

“It’s some kind of test and I don’t think he’s doing so well,” Clark said, his breathing labored.

After administering the sobriety test the officer began lecturing Lawrence nose to nose, his voice rising until he was flat out yelling. Words and phrases like “irresponsible”, “negligent”, “worthless excuse for a father”, and “I oughta kick your ass” were flung at the wobbling parent with stunning velocity. Clark sat staring in wide-eyed awe at their clean-cut, square-jawed, uniformed savior and decided this man would be a great father.

His tirade over, the officer instructed Lawrence to sit on the ground beside the patrol car and stay put, and then approached the children, squatting on his haunches before them. “Scary ride, huh.”

“Yes, sir,” Clark replied.

“My name is Officer Raddich. You guys okay?”

“I think my sisters are,” Clark said, wiping his shirt sleeve across his eyes. “But my chest hurts real bad.”

“Just sit still. That siren you hear is your ride. Your father said you live in the Airport Circle Apartments. That right?”

The children nodded.

“My daddy wrecked our new car, peaceman Radish!” Elizabeth blurted.

“That he did.”

“Mama will be mad,” Elise said.

“Is your mother home?”

“Yes, sir. You gonna call her? ” Clark asked.

“I will real soon, son, but first let’s make sure you guys are all right.”

The ambulance arrived, Officer Raddich huddled with the attendants for a few moments, and then all three of them returned to where the children sat.

“This is Mr. Steve and Ms. Laura,” the officer said. “They’re paramedics, here to take you to the hospital.”

“Is Daddy going to the hospital too?” Elise asked.

“No sweetheart, he’s going with me.”

***

“Darn it!” Clark whispered, failing yet again to reach the spot.

His left shoulder itched like mad, and the mummy-like bandages encircling his torso made it difficult to satisfy. He rocked from side to side. No good. Struggling to a sitting position, he rubbed against the headboard. There. That helped a little.

The hospital sucked. He hated it; too much pain, sorrow, and sad faces. He spent one night there for bruised ribs, the same amount of time his father had spent in jail for DUI. Something called bail. The policeman should have given him a year. The thought of three-hundred-sixty-five consecutive days without the man who brought so much stress and turmoil to their lives brought a fleeting smile to his lips.

He turned his head, looked across the moonlit bedroom at his nine-year-old brother. Like a brick. How could he sleep through their parents’ screaming and yelling? His mother’s high-pitched, weepy voice bounced off every wall in the house. Elizabeth and Elise would be in their beds curled up in balls, whimpering and shaking like newborn kittens. His father said he had drunk only two drinks yesterday and bitched about the inaccuracy of the Breathalyzer, whatever that was.

Two drinks, my butt. More like way over ten.

His dad was telling a lie. A lie Clark and his sisters would have to swallow or suffer the consequences. He buried his face deeper into his pillow, brought it up around his ears in an attempt to smother his mother’s anguish.

Yesterday pictured fresh in his mind. His parents had purchased the new car and his dad was anxious to give the children a ride. Since Mark was still on the downside of a virus, Irene, their mother, decided he would stay home. Undeterred, Lawrence loaded up Clark, Elizabeth, and Elise and assured Irene they would be gone an hour at the most.

Lawrence pulled into the Bamboo Room’s gravel parking lot at two in the afternoon. Rocks crackled and popped under the wagon’s tires as it cruised to the end of a line of vehicles along the south side of the building. They parked next to an oil-soaked red Ford F150, bumping to a stop against a creosoted railroad tie. Lawrence said he would only be a few minutes, that he needed to take care of some business, and ordered them to lock the doors. After he entered the bar, the girls climbed over the front seat and joined their brother.

“Why can’t we go in?” Elise asked.

“Cuz we’re too young. This place is for adults. I think you gotta be eighteen to go inside,” Clark answered.

“Why did Dad bring us here if we can’t go in?” Elizabeth asked.

“How should I know? Now stop asking me.”

“What’s this?” Elise held the cigarette lighter, its end glowing red hot.

“Gimme that!” He grabbed the lighter, burning his thumb. “Ouch! Darn it, Elise! See what you did?” He inserted the lighter in its hole in the dashboard then stuck his thumb in his mouth.

The twins chanted in unison: “Clark’s sucking his tha-umb, Clark’s sucking his tha-umb, baby, baby, ba-by.”

“Shut up! I’m not sucking my thumb. Both of you get in the back seat.”

 

“I’m going in,” Clark announced after three-and-a-half hours of naps, agonizing boredom, fights with the twins and overwhelming pressure on his bladder.

“You can’t go in there, you’re not eighteen,” Elizabeth said.

“It’s okay when it’s an emergency.”

“Then we’ll go with you. It’s our mergency too,” Elise said.

“No you’re not. You’re staying here. Don’t touch anything on the dash, don’t play with the steering wheel, and keep the windows and doors locked.” Before exiting the car, he extracted the lighter and stuck it in his pocket.

Neon Miller, Coors, and Michelob signs appeared to float in mid-air while cigarette cherries flitted about like fireflies in the darkened confines of the Bamboo Room. After his vision adjusted to the limited light he picked his father out of the about-faced line-up sitting at the bar, his familiar blue flannel shirt, brightened by the glow of the jukebox, catching his eye. He sat between a big-haired wrinkled lady and a man Clark recognized as Mr. Red, one of his father’s oilfield buddies. Nicknamed for the blazing thatch of wildness atop his head, the man possessed the biggest belly Clark had ever seen and smoked the longest, nastiest smelling cigars in the whole world; looked and smelled like large burning turds.

He zigzagged between varnished pine picnic tables littering the large smoke-filled room, the soles of his shoes making ripping sounds as he traversed the sticky floor.

“Dad, can we go home now?” he said, nudging his father in the back. “The girls have to go to the bathroom real bad, and I’m afraid they’ll pee on the brand new seats. I gotta go too.”

Big hair and Lawrence turned together, both displaying glazed eyes. “This your boy, Larry?” the lady asked, cigarette smoke exploding from her nostrils like a cow’s breath on a frozen morning.

“Yeah, that’s him,” Lawrence said, slurring words.

She extended a bony hand, roughed up his longish blonde hair. “Handsome little booger. Got them big goddamn eyes just like your daddy; blue as my favorite nail polish.” She thrust her right hand to within inches of his nose. “Look!” Her voice was dense and raspy. She sucked from the cigarette with Cruela DeVille-like puckered lips and exhaled another plume of white smoke. Clark coughed. His eyes stung.

“What you want, son?” Lawrence asked.

“I need to pee, and we wanna go home.”

“Why didn’t you say something? The john’s over there beside the cigarette machine.” He picked some coins from the bar. “Get me some Camels on the way back.”

“You need to check on the girls, Dad. They need to pee, too.”

“Yeah, ah… right. You just get to the pisser.”

Their new car ride culminated an hour later in the accident on US 101 after a harrowing trip that challenged any amusement park ride Clark had ever been on in his short life. The wreck was almost a relief.

He eyed his slumbering brother. “Please God,” he prayed, “make Mark stop peeing the bed. He’s getting whipped too much, and I can’t stand to hear him scream. It makes me hurt inside. And please make my dad stop drinking and cussing and being an all-around bad father. Amen.”

 

He glanced at his brother again, wondering if Jesus was listening this time.

 

Chapter 2

IRENE BURIED HER NOSE in the Bible for three days following the accident, searching it like a repair manual for divine guidance on how to mend her defective husband. Clark wondered why his mother even bothered to scold his father anymore. There had been a time when her strong and forceful rants ignited hope in him, but after hearing the same monotonous arguments and threats again and again and never seeing any change, he determined she was like the boy in the fairy tale who cried wolf way too often. Consequently his spirits no longer inflated when he heard her threaten to leave and take the kids.

At dinner he noticed his brother evil-eyeing the dreaded green beans and okra. Mark sat across from him, Elizabeth to his left, Elise across from her. A parent sat at each end of a scarred, rectangular picnic table that looked like it could’ve come from the Bamboo Room. The boys exchanged resigned expressions, knowing there was no way out. They would have to sit at the table and eat the nasty-tasting vegetables even if it took all night. Clark knew because he had to do it once before he wised up. He sat hunched over a plate of fried okra until three o’clock in the morning. That’s when he awoke face down in the crap. With most of the serving plastered to his forehead, nose, and cheeks, he had no problem swallowing whole the tiny portion left on his plate. The other part he just washed off. Now, knowing the futility of resistance, he swallowed (not chewing was key) everything he didn’t like without a peep.

“Mother, pass the corn, please,” Mark said.

She reached for the plate, but Lawrence intercepted it. “No corn or anything else, period, until he eats some green beans and okra,” he said.

Irene dished out a portion of each onto Mark’s plate. “Try your best, son.”

“Suck your thumb today, Elise?” Lawrence asked.

The kids, knowing she had, looked to their mother with wide, pleading eyes.

“She only did it a couple times,” Irene said. “She’s getting better every day.”

Lawrence reached for the Tabasco. “Gimme your hand, Elise.”

She hesitated, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks.

Clark’s eyes swelled with moisture. “Dad, don’t. Please?”

“Shut the hell up, boy! You’re getting a little too big for your britches. Elise, gimme your hand, damn it!”

She extended a quivering arm, and Lawrence shook a dozen or so drops of the hot sauce onto the digit.

“Put it in your mouth. Now!”

“Lawrence, there’s no need for this.”

“Shut up! In your mouth, Elise.”

With chest heaving and tears raining on her roast beef, she inserted the spicy thumb. At that moment Clark knew time had come to do something, anything, to strike back at their tormentor.

Two hours later the theme music to The Love Boat signaled bedtime. Clark wished he could stay up and watch it. Heck, it was only eight. Most of his friends got to stay up till nine. While Mark, Elise, and Elizabeth stood, he lingered on the sofa.

“Thought I told you to get to bed,” Lawrence said. “Think you’re somebody special, or what?”

“No, sir. I’d just like to see this show. All my friends get to watch it,” Clark replied.

“Well that’s too bad. Just go on and float your boat down the hall to your bedroom.”

“Yes, sir.”

After loving kisses for Irene and perfunctory pecks for Lawrence, the kids scuttled to their bedrooms. A question replaced the resentment Clark felt over not being allowed to watch The Love Boat: Would Mark wet the bed or not? Before last night, it was just a given. He always peed the bed. But yesterday was different; Mark’s bed had remained dry.

Clark’s aching ribs caused him to curtail his usual habit of waking at two o’clock in the morning, checking his brother’s underwear and bedding, and changing them if necessary. Expecting the worst the next morning, he was pleasantly surprised. Maybe this was the beginning of the end of the peeing thing. He sure hoped so. He was tired of deceiving his father, who labored under the impression Mark hadn’t wet the bed for over a week.

Clark came out of the bathroom after brushing his teeth and asked, “So you think you can make it two nights in a row?”

“I won’t do it tonight, guaranteed.”

“How can you guarantee it?”

“Never mind. Just wait and see.”

“Hope so. We can’t keep tricking Dad. Sooner or later he’s gonna find out, and we’ll both get the belt.” Clark killed the lights and they climbed into their beds.

Fifteen minutes passed, then: “Clark?”

“Yeah?”

“You asleep?”

Clark made a sound that fit somewhere between a sigh and a whine. “Does it sound like I’m asleep?”

“No, guess not.”

“Whataya want?”

“Just wondering.”

After a few moments Clark asked, “Whataya want, Mark? I’m sleepy.”

“Ever get tired of being the dad?”

“What you talking about?”

“You act more like our dad than Dad does.”

“You’re crazy. Now go to sleep.”

“See what I mean?” Mark said.

“Just cuz I told you to go to sleep means I’m like a dad? I don’t think so. That’s stupid.”

“It’s the way you say it and other things too.”

“What other things?”

“Like the way you help Mom do things without her even telling you to.”

“Any kid would help his mother.”

“Not just for nothing, without being told.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t, and the girls don’t, and none of our friends help without being told. But you volunteer.”

“So? Big deal.”

“And you try to take care of us,” Mark said. “Even Mom.”

“Mother takes care of herself.”

“Huh-uh. Remember that time she thought we had a plumbing leak and you went under the building to look when the maintenance guy didn’t show up?”

“That was no big deal.”

“I wouldn’t do it, spiders and snakes and remember that time Mom said she heard something outside the living room window and you went and got Dad’s rifle and clicked the bolt next to the window and we heard somebody run away? The girls and me were really scared, and Mom was too, but you weren’t.”

“I was scared,” Clark said.

“Really scared?”

“Really, really, scared.”

Clark turned his back to his brother. “Now go to sleep.”

“There you go again.”

Clark had just entered the ether zone when he heard, “What about Annie?”

“Who?”

“Remember Annie? How you saved her? Were you scared then?”

“Darn it, Mark.”

“Were you?”

Yawning, he said, “Not at first, but after it was all over I got real scared. Now go to sleep or I’ll get Dad.”

“O-kay. Seeya tomorrow.”

“Night.”

 

Just past two Clark awoke to a noise that sounded like a whimpering puppy. He sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes, careful not to make any sudden moves that would cause pain to shoot through his sides. He looked at the other bed. Couldn’t really see anything at first, but then slowly his eyes adjusted to the muted light. Mark lay like a comma, facing the wall. Clark struggled to his feet, crossed the room, and sat on the edge of the bed.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked, poking Mark’s back.

More whimpering.

“Hey, what’s wrong with you?”

Mark rolled over. In the darkness, Clark could barely make out a look of pure agony on his brother’s face.

“It’s my dick,” he said. Sounded like he was trying to hold back tears.

“Whataya mean? What’s wrong with it?”

Mark shoved down his underwear. “Look.”

“Can’t see; too dark,” Clark said. “Watch your eyes; I’ll turn on the light.” He stumbled over a pair of shoes to the light switch, flipped it on, stood for a moment blinking against the attack of sudden brilliance, then moved back to the bed.

“Now what the heck’s wrong with your thing, man?” He gazed down at Mark’s penis and gasped. Its head appeared enlarged and dark purple. “Whoa…! Damn! Did something bite you? A spider? A wasp?” He’d slipped. He admonished himself for cursing.

“Put a rubber band on it.”

“You did what?”

“Can’t you hear? I said I put a rubber band on it.”

“Geez. I need a closer look. Hope the heck the rubber band doesn’t break.” Careful lest he touch it, Clark bent over till his nose hovered three inches above the wounded member.

Mark twitched.

“Don’t move, darn it!”

Sure enough, he had quadruple-wrapped a thick rubber band around his penis, now buried deep in the foreskin just beneath the head.

“Why’d you do that? That was stupid!”

“I’m tired of Dad going off on me.”

“You didn’t pee the bed last night, why’d you think you needed a rubber band tonight?”

“I didn’t sleep at all cuz I was afraid. I knew you couldn’t get up, and I wanted some z’s.”

For an instant Clark felt like crying. No way could he let his brother see that. “We’ve gotta get it off before your weenie dies, man. I’ll get some scissors.” He slipped out into the hallway, sneaked to the kitchen and found a pair in a drawer next to the refrigerator. When he returned his brother’s hands were cupped around his penis as if handling a wounded sparrow.

Mark’s eyes enlarged, the whites becoming dominant, as Clark approached his ailing member with scissors that appeared to him as big as pruning shears.

“You sure you can do this?” Mark asked.

Clark covered his eyes with one hand for a moment. “No. I gotta get Mother.”

“No way. Dad’ll find out, and I don’t want Mom to see it. She’s a girl.”

“If I try it, dude, you might end up peeing like a girl. You want that?”

“Go get Mom, darn it, and don’t call me dude.”

Irene twitched and repositioned herself when he nudged her arm. Lawrence’s raucous snoring had drowned out his murmured, “Mother.” He knelt beside the bed, having crawled on his hands and knees from the doorway. He nudged her again, harder this time, and she stirred, fighting to embrace consciousness.

“What? Who is it?”

“It’s me, Clark. Mark’s in trouble, he needs you. And don’t wake Dad,” he whispered.

“What’s wrong?”

“You’ll just have to see for yourself… shhh!”

Irene slipped out of bed and followed her son down the hall to his bedroom. One look at her youngest boy’s face told her something was terribly wrong. “Are you sick again, baby?”

Mark shook his head as his mother sat beside him on the bed.

“Well, what’s wrong?’

He reluctantly uncovered his crotch, exposing his strangled penis.

Irene’s hands flew to her mouth. “My Jesus, Lord!”

“I told him it was dumb,” Clark sing-songed.

“For God’s sake, Mark! Why in the world…?”

“You know how nine-year-olds are, Mom,” Clark blurted. “He was playing with the rubber band, fell asleep, and his weenie is paying the price big time.”

“Just shut up, Clark. Get me some scissors,” Irene said.

“Got ‘em.” Clark handed the instrument to her.

“Baby, it’s important that you stay perfectly still. Do you understand?”

Mark nodded.

The scissors neared his crotch and Mark’s eyes transformed into small kaleidoscopes of panic and fear. Clark rolled his eyes to the ceiling half-expecting to see a small purple penis lying on the floor, if he ever gathered the nerve to look. He held no doubt in his mind that blood would spurt freely from the place Mark always had trouble containing liquid. After a couple yearlong minutes simultaneous sighs from Irene and Mark signaled it was okay to look, and Clark watched relief displace pain on his brother’s face.

Irene rose to her feet, a wry smile on her face. “Let this be a lesson to both of you. This is not the kind of rubber to use down there.”

“What’d she mean by that?” Mark asked after his mother had left the room.

“Tell ya later.”


Chapter 3

 

IN A PREVIOUS INCARNATION the Airport Circle Apartment community was a bustling army/air force base. After the Korean War, the government closed it down and dropped it in the county’s lap free of charge. Santa Barbara County, in turn, converted the federal freebie into low-cost public housing. Rents were assessed according to each family’s means, and a population consisting of Caucasian, Latino, African American, and a dash of Asian contributed to a vibrant and congenial cultural stew; mostly because nobody had anything valuable enough to lord over anyone else.

Two miles west of the complex the main dirt road transecting the community became a paved thoroughfare that circled the regional airport, hence the name. A maze of smaller dirt roads meandered between the fifty-three lime green, multi-family buildings, and every evening around five the complex became engulfed in great brown clouds of dust spawned by hordes of homebound pickup trucks. Consequently, around four-thirty, women all over the neighborhood could be seen racing to communal clotheslines in a mad dash to rescue their laundry from the billowing grime.

Weller Memorial Park, named after a dead mayor, bordered the property on the north side. To the south, up the road fronting the Ralstons’ apartment, sat Olgrin’s family grocery and it seemed as if the store owner’s life mission was to make sure everybody knew everybody else’s business. Mrs. Olgrin had once been Irene’s best friend and Clark felt sure, as did his mother, that everyone in the neighborhood heard about Mark’s bed-wetting problem at her store from her big, fat mouth.

Fifth-grader Clark and fourth-grader Mark walked to Lakeside Elementary, located about half a mile east of their home. Walking to school posed no problems for them, they enjoyed it. Midway between their apartment and the school the highway department had cleared a forest in preparation for a new state road, and the boys loved to frolic in the giant Eucalyptus carcasses littering the landscape. They had liked the trees even better when they were living. Standing tall, straight, and majestic, they offered a wonderful environment for fantasy. On any given day the boys might’ve faced the Sheriff of Nottingham in Sherwood Forest, or the Tin Man, Scarecrow, and Lion in the Emerald Forest of Oz. But the bulldozers had destroyed their portal into other worlds, and now the imagination would have to run amok to think the place was anything more than an aromatic graveyard.

After school on a bright blue Tuesday afternoon, Mark and Clark rested on a fallen tree after jumping from trunk to trunk like bullfrogs to lily pads while firing dirt clods at each other. A cool breeze off the sea whistled through the dead limbs, rustled desiccated leaves, and mussed the boys’ hair. In the distance, earthmoving machines could be heard going about their destructive business.

“Why’s Dad so mean?” Mark asked between rejuvenating gulps of air.

“Don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t like kids.”

“Then why’d they have us?”

“Good question,” Clark said.

“Think he loves us?”

“Huh-uh. He doesn’t act like other fathers.”

“Whataya mean?” Mark asked.

“Like he’s only come to one of my ballgames and he was drunk. Stumbling all over the place. I felt terrible and told Mother I didn’t want him to come to any more games. Other fathers don’t do that.”

“What’d Mom say?”

“Told me to hush.”

They fell silent for a few moments before Mark began tossing dirt clods at a large knothole on a tree fifteen feet away.

“Clark?”

“Yeah?”

“Dad ever told you he loves you just for no reason?”

“Not for any reason. You?”

“Never.”

“Mother told me most men think it’s sissy to say it,” Clark said.

“I don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Think it’s sissy. It makes me feel good when Mom says it to me, and it makes me feel good when I say it back to her.”

“You love me?” Clark asked.

“No, silly. Boys don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“I told you, cuz we’re boys. Boys don’t love other boys.”

“Dad’s a boy.”

“That’s different. Dads are supposed to tell their children they love them, boy or girl. I will when I have kids.”

“Me too.”

They watched as a large flock of scavenging blackbirds landed thirty feet away and began wreaking havoc on the felled forest’s insect population.

“Think you’ll ever stop pissing the bed?” Clark asked as he threw a clod at the feathered foragers. The birds hopped in unison as if skipping rope, parachuted back to earth on ebony wings, and returned to their arthropod feast.

“Hope so. I can’t take too much more of that belt.”

“Why can’t you stop?”

“Cuz I dream about it.”

“About what?”

“That I’m at the pot taking a pee, smiling, all proud of myself, and by the time I wake up me and the bed are soaked,” Mark said, exasperated.

“Try to dream about the desert or something.”

“The desert?”

“Yeah, there’s no water there.”

Both broke into spontaneous laughter, a good while since they had done that.

“I’m tired of the way Dad treats us. I’ve come up with a way to get back at him,” Clark said.

“How?”

“By stealing things from him. Things he likes.”

“Like what?”

“Don’t know; anything he likes.”

“He’ll beat your butt if he catches you.”

“Us,” Clark said.

Mark raised an eyebrow as his tummy turned. “Us?”

“Yeah. You, the girls, and me. He won’t know who did it.”

“I vote no. I get the belt enough as it is.”

“Listen! You never listen to me, Mark. Might as well be talking to that big fat ugly tree trunk over there, or Dad.” He sighed and continued. “You know those polished rocks Mr. Wilkes gives us every time we go see him?”

An old friend of their father’s, Roy Wilkes polished rocks of various colors into shiny beauties as a hobby. His son, Jimmy, was Clark’s best friend.

“Yeah.”

“We’ll steal his stuff and leave one of those rocks. It’ll drive him crazy.”

Mark frowned, then his flushed face broke into a big grin. “We’ll call ourselves The Rock Club!”

“Not bad. I like it. The Rock Club. Yeah, that’s cool. Now this is our secret. You can’t tell any of your friends or even Mother. Especially not Mother.”

“You got it. Clark?”

“Yeah?”

“Does Mr. Wilkes still drink? I mean like beer and wine and stuff.”

“No, he stopped.”

“I thought so, cuz him and Dad don’t go places together anymore.”

“Yep, he quit.”

“Just like that?” Mark asked.

“Jimmy said he joined a special club called AA, and they helped him.”

“AA? What’s that?”

“Jimmy said it’s kind of like Boy Scouts for men.”

“They go camping and hiking, things like that?”

“No, but Jimmy said it was because of AA his dad started polishing rocks.”

Mark’s face scrunched toward his nose. “Really? Why?”

“Jimmy said Mr. Wilkes is like a dirty old rock being polished till it shines. Said it was a meta something. Metaphor. That’s it.”

“Met-a-phor? That’s weird,” Mark said.

“Maybe, but it must work. Mr. Wilkes stopped drinking.”

“You think we could get Dad to polish rocks?”

“Probably gotta be a member of the club.”

“I wish Mr. Wilkes would invite Dad to join.”

“Me too,” Clark said. He pushed himself to his feet, stuck his hands in his pockets and extracted a dollar bill and some change. “I got enough for Cokes. Want one?”

“Yeah, sure. Where’d you get the cash?”

“Dad’s dresser. Want a Coke or not?”

“Let’s go.”

The boys dropped from their perch and picked their way through the debris field to the dirt road leading to Olgrin’s. Clark kicked a discarded Hire’s Root Beer can lying in the road toward his brother.

Mark kicked it back. “Wonder why some kids get good parents and some don’t.”

“Beats me,” Clark said.

They walked in silence for a while, ping-ponging the can with their feet before Mark said, “Brother Eddie says God can do anything, right?”

“Right.”

“So why can’t he help me stop peeing the bed? I ask for help every night.”

Clark didn’t answer his brother. “Last one to Olgrin’s is a nerd!” he said, then took off running as fast as he could.

Continued….

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