Romantic Suspense
Date Published: September 26, 2017
Publisher: Broadback
She Do Run Run is a fast, double-shot-of-espresso read. Its heart-racing story can be consumed in a few quick hours.
Jenny’s life is shattered when her Special Ops husband is killed. To escape the pain, she falls into a dangerous cycle of random sex and booze, and one night she kills a violent man.
She runs off into the unknown, desperate to survive and change her life. That’s when Lieutenant Jon Dowling appears.
Excerpt:
“Are
you all right, honey?”
I
glanced up, spooked. “What?”
“Your
hands are shaking and you’re as pale as a napkin. Are you sick or something?”
I
snapped out of my nightmare thoughts and glanced up at the 50s something
waitress, dressed in a blue cotton uniform, holding a glass pot of coffee. She was thin, drawn, concerned and curious.
I
was in a diner, somewhere in north Florida.
I remember that the walls had very bad photos of Florida sunsets.
“Yes…Yes,
I’m fine. I’m okay,” I said, hoarsely,
my throat sore, my voice strained from KC’s choking hands. “Yeah, a truck almost slammed into me. Scared the hell out of me. That’s why I stopped here. My nerves are a little shaky. I’m okay.
I’m fine.”
I
sounded like a nut case. I told myself
to slow my speech down. Don’t talk so
much.
The
waitress stared with nervous concern.
“Well, all right then. Everybody
drives so fast nowadays, and just seems so angry at everything. You be careful out there. You want some more coffee?”
“Yes,
please,” I answered.
She
poured my cup full and retreated. I
looked at my hands. They were
shaking. I was trembling all over. The adrenalin had drained away. My calm mood had vanished and I was fighting
the shakes and a burning terror. I
finished some of the scrambled eggs, drained the coffee and glanced about like
a hunted animal. I snatched up my phone
and found local news for Fort Pierce, Florida.
No news on KC’s death. I checked
messages. One from Stacy, a
girlfriend. She wanted to meet for drinks
and dinner on Saturday. What day was
this? Thursday? Yes.
Thursday morning, June 19th.
I
drove on US 17 N until my eyes burned and my shoulders were stiff—until rosy
dawn spread out across the horizon, reminding me of blood. I was close to Charleston, South
Carolina. I was exhausted from stress
and no sleep.
I
found a motel—not a sprawling, cheap motel like I’d killed KC in—but a
three-story brick with a room on the second floor, near a grove of quiet
trees. I paid for the room in cash—for
two days—took a quick shower and slipped the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the
doorknob. I double locked the door and
collapsed onto the queen-size bed, covering myself with the bedspread, and
falling into a deep, black sleep.
I
awoke just after 1pm, my eyes sticky, a dream about Kyle slipping away, even
while I tried to pull it back. He’d said
something important to me, but I couldn’t recall what it was.
Reality
returned like a hard slap in the face and I sat up. I reoriented myself and swung my feet to the
floor. I wore only panties, and the room
was cold from the air-conditioner. I
stood, tugged on the jeans and slipped into the top I’d worn the day before,
standing still, struggling to breathe, the reality of the night returning like
the cut of a knife. I felt heavy,
weighed down and damaged.
I
had no suitcase, no toiletries. I’d have
to find the nearest mall and drugstore and start from scratch. I did not intend to return to Florida anytime
soon, and maybe never.
I
had no plan. I just wanted to run. I wanted to run to the edge of the world and
then jump off. Raw fear and anxiety
arose, and images of KC charging me in the darkness, like some crazed wounded
animal, got me trembling again.
Reluctantly, I reached for my phone and nervously searched the St. Lucie
County local online news, the TCPALM. I
loaded the front page and scrolled. I
was jolted by the headline—
Man
Found Shot to Death in Motel Room
A maid working at the
Sandbar Motel on Route 11, in Fort Pierce, found a man shot to death in his
motel room. According to the owner,
Larry Thomas, the man had been shot four times.
This is a developing story, and detectives have just begun their
investigation. It was reported that no murder weapon was found, no one heard
the shots and, at this time, there are no suspects. The victim’s name is Kenny Stubbs, also known
as KC. He had been released from a
correctional facility recently after serving a 5-year sentence for grand theft
and assault of a police officer. Mr.
Stubbs has a previous record of three counts of assault on three separate
women, and two charges of domestic violence against his ex-wife.
It
was a surreal moment. My pulse quickened
as I lowered my phone and stared at nothing.
Yes, I had killed him.
About the Author
I'm a Florida-based writer, who loves all things romantic, with a shot of suspense. I also love to write Time Travel Novels.
When the characters keep me up nights, I feel good about the story.
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