Here's a sneak preview of JRD's latest women's fiction psychological thriller coming in 2016...
https://spoiler2010.wordpress.com/2015/12/04/the-blight-a-sneak-preview/
She was totally wired after Brad left the
apartment and could not relax, much less go to sleep. She finally decided to
take a ride down to the Hilton St. Louis near the ballpark downtown to calm her
nerves. She hadn’t been there for a while, and the scenic view would probably
take her mind off things. There were enough distractions in her life without
having to worry about boyfriends fighting over her.
It
pissed her off that Brad would be trying to interfere in her private life. She
knew he would move in with her in a heartbeat if she made an offer. Even though
he understood it wasn’t going to happen, she resented the fact he was trying to
mess things up with her and Kurt. And she knew that Kurt was not going to
contend for her. He would just walk away, and that was what worried her most of
all.
There
was also the issue with X. She realized she was trying to ignore the fact that
the psycho killer was homing in on her. Brad sneaking up on her outside the
apartment told her that she was getting sloppy. No one was able to get within a
yard of her back in Iraq and Afghanistan. Her female instincts were getting dim
out here in civilian life, if she could call it that. She had to stay sharp,
she had to stay ready. Somewhere out there, X was planning his next move.
The
Three Sixty Rooftop Bar at the hotel was one of her favorite places. It
afforded visitors a panoramic view of the Arch, the Riverfront and Laclede’s
Landing further down the line. She used to go to Laclede’s all the time until
the Ferguson riots. After that the gangbangers started pushing the envelope and
making their presence felt throughout the area. It became too risky to have one
of them make her from the street.
She
loved the lime-colored décor, the bar countertop matching the stool covers and
the panels below the open flame grills. The subtle lighting offset the hearty
fire off to the right of the bar. It provided a fireplace effect though the
cooking aromas were reminiscent of the finest steak houses. The bartender was
always friendly and often gave her a buyback when she visited.
She
ordered a Jameson Irish whiskey and promised herself to nurse it as an upbeat
bossa nova tune strained through the bar speakers. It was sparsely crowded with
tourists, off-duty hospitality staff and city personnel making up most of the
clientele. It suited her fine because she needed some space right now.
“Say,
miss, were you at the hockey game?”
She
turned to face a giant of a man standing 6’4”, about 280 pounds. His hair was
close-cropped and there was a hint of a beard and mustache growing in. She was
fairly certain it was the Kansas City Terminator, Johnny Fairmount. She saw him
once or twice on Metro Pro Wrestling and the new series, Independence
Wrestling.
“Nah,
I quit going after they traded TJ Oshie. That kinda pissed me off.”
“Yeah,
TJ wasn’t too happy about leaving. We gave him a big sendoff before he left. Say,
can I buy you a drink?”
“Yeah,
well…” she said before knocking out her shot in one gulp. “Why not?”
He
motioned to the bartender as he walked over and got his own drink in joining
her. She signaled to the bartender to pour her a double, and he readily
obliged.
“Jameson?
Great whiskey. I think I’ll have one,” he knocked down his drink and motioned
for a refill. “So, what do you do?”
“A
little bit of this and that,” she shrugged. “Just try to get by.”
“Ever
think of getting into the entertainment business?” he asked, giving her a
once-over. She was still wearing her workout suit, which failed to conceal her
generous bosom and her hourglass figure.
“What,
like a clown?”
“No,
like behind the scenes,” he scoffed. “I’m sorry, my name’s Johnny.”
“Yeah,
I’ve seen you on TV.”
“And
you’re…?”
“My
friends call me Kirstie.”
He
extended his hand and was impressed by her strong grip. He was doubly impressed
when she knocked down her double in one gulp.
“No need to rush,” he waved a finger,
causing the bartender to pour her another double. “I’m not leaving town until
tomorrow morning. We’re on tour in Texas, then taking a run through New Mexico
and Colorado.”
“Sounds
like fun.”
“Wanna
tag along?”
“Nah,
I got stuff to do.”
Fairmount
kept trying to make small talk, and she felt somewhat sorry for him. The poor
bastard probably forgot how to chat with normal people. In his world, he roared
and everyone listened. He probably walked into the wrestling bars along the
circuit and had the groupies falling at his feet. In a way he was probably like
a cop, drowning in a sea of cops. In his case, all he knew was barbell plates
and cheap steaks. He was losing his connection with real life, just like she
was.
“Well,
Kirstie,” he said as the bartender poured her third double, “I think you’re
gonna have trouble driving home. Why don’t you come down to my room and chill
out? I can order room service.”
“Nah,
I’m good,” she smirked at him. “I gotta go.”
“Gotta
go?” he was exasperated. “The party’s just started.”
“Not
for me. I gotta get up early.”
“Now,
look. A beautiful girl like you doesn’t need to be walking around downtown by
herself at this hour of the night after drinking all that booze,” he said,
stroking her hair away from her face.
“I’ll
be fine, don’t worry.”
“C’mon,
now,” he began kneading the back of her neck. “You just knocked down a hundred bucks’
worth of whiskey. You wouldn’t drink that much whiskey with someone you didn’t
like, would you?”
“Mmm,
that feels good,” she said before shrugging him off. “That’s enough.”
“Hey,
darling, you wouldn’t be taking advantage of a stranger’s hospitality, would
you?” he ran his finger along the neckline of her t-shirt.
“Don’t
do that,” she murmured.
“You
like that, don’t you?” his finger trailed down towards her bosom.
“Last
warning.”
“What?”
he leered.
His
finger stroked her left breast before she snatched the ball of his thumb and
twisted it outward. She heard his wrist crackle as she grabbed her glass and
shattered it against his temple. He wobbled slightly before moving toward her,
at which point she had the barrel of her snubnosed .38 Smith and Wesson pressed
against his head.
“Now
I asked you nice,” she said as the rest of the patrons froze in horror around
the spacious lounge. “Where’s your fricking manners?”
“Okay,
lady,” she heard a voice booming from the end of the bar behind her. “St. Louis
MPD. Put your weapon on the bar and step away nice and slow.”
“Yeah,
right,” she said, doing as she was told before sliding her purse down the bar
in the direction of the voice. “I’m a cop. My ID’s in the purse.”
Fairmount’s
eyes were wide as quarters as he regained his composure and walked off. Kirsten
held her hands out as the gray-haired man trained his pistol on her while
rummaging through her purse with his left hand.
“Detective
Streicher,” he said, slipping his gun back in his shoulder holster beneath his
suit jacket. He nodded as she picked up her revolver and came over to retrieve
her purse.
“Well,
I guess that’s that,” she glanced over as Fairmount rejoined three other
brutish men at a far corner table.
“Word
around the campfire was that you were an attractive woman,” the cop smiled. “I’m
Bill Clinton from Homicide. I’d have to say those rumors were grossly
understated.”
“I’ll
take that as a compliment.”
“You’re
wired kinda tight for a civilian bar. With your looks, you can’t possibly think
you’re not gonna get hit on. You really should stick to cop bars.”
“So
what’re you doing here? You’re pretty quick on the draw yourself.”
“I’m
waiting for my wife. She has a strong aversion to cop bars.”
“Yeah,
must be the kind of people you meet there.”
They
watched as Fairmount and his friends headed out the door. Just before they
left, he turned to her.
“Sorry
about the misunderstanding,” the massive athlete called over as the bartender
began pouring the two officers a refill. “Drinks’re on me.”
“No
harm done,” she waved and smiled. “Thanks.”
Just
as the wrestlers left, a stately and attractive woman strode through the door. She
spotted Clinton and a look of jealous anger swept over her face.
“Oh
crud,” he exhaled. “My wife’s here. I need to introduce you.”
“Sorry,”
Kirsten snatched her purse off the bar. “Gotta go.”
“What
the heck?” he gawked at her.
“This
is what you get for pointing guns at women’s heads,” she said sweetly.
She
swayed her hips as she strutted past an irate Mrs. Clinton, reinforcing her
long-held belief that payback was indeed a bitch.
