What’s Next?

Burn in Hail

11-17-17

Chapter 1

Tate

“I flipped on my blinker and looked left before I took the final turn that would lead me to my house. When I was fully on my street, I saw what looked like ten or so males gathered around something on the ground in a clearing right off the road.”

I cleared my throat.

The woman’s intense stare was almost emasculating.

I continued. “That clearing belongs to Dr. Foreman. Or did— I don’t know if it does anymore or not since I haven’t been here…” she waved me off. “Anyway, there isn’t usually anyone in that field, so it made me pay attention. And that’s when I saw the silvery blonde hair on the ground.”

Something switched in my brain.

My past and present collided, and there wasn’t a single thing that could stop me.

Not anymore.

“And can you tell me what happened next?”

I shook my head.

“No,” I said. “I blacked out.”

The woman, the one that was currently making my dick hard, dropped her eyes to her papers that were sitting in her lap, and started writing once again.

Her slim, breakable wrist—that would take nothing for me to wrap my fingers around—moved as she wrote furiously. The delicate charm bracelet that she was wearing jingled each time she moved lower on the paper.

“When you say you blacked out, can you describe it to me?”

I shrugged. “Not really. One second I was aware of what was going on, and the next, nothing.”

She looked up at me, pursing her lips.

Jesus Christ.

The girl—and she was a girl, no younger than twenty-three at most—was wearing ruby red lipstick.

I’d never seen anyone in this town wear red lipstick.

Hell, hardly anyone looked good in the shit, but this girl? She really pulled it off.

She had white skin so fine that it looked like a fucking doll’s, and her black hair was such a stark contrast with her skin that it kept drawing my eyes to where they met.

Right along the line of her collarbone.

She had the majority of her hair up in some complicated bun looking thing, but there was this one rebellious curl that had escaped the confines and was brushing along her collarbone.

“When do you remember ‘coming to yourself’?” she questioned.

She was looking at me over the rim of her cat-eyed purple reading glasses with four rhinestones on the arm of each side, waiting for the answer to her question.

If there was one thing I did not want to do, it was talk to this woman about my ‘anger issues.’

I didn’t have ‘anger issues.’ I had issues that weren’t solely based on my anger.

I was one fucked up individual.

I’d been in the Marines for fifteen years. My sister had been brutally raped, beaten, and then tried to hang herself from a rafter when I was seventeen. I’d been married and divorced, and thought I had a kid.

I say thought because about six months into that pregnancy, my ex-wife, Rachel, had told me that she was no longer in love with me anymore. Oh, and that the child she was currently carrying wasn’t mine, but my best friend’s.

So yeah, I had fucking issues, and anger wasn’t the only reason for them.

Being fucked up was the reason.

It just so happened that the judge that had let me off for my ‘good behavior’ early had mandated that I see a psychologist that could help me work with those ‘issues.’

“I remember everything from the moment that the first cop shot me in the chest with a fucking sandbag.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Language like that is not needed to tell this story, Mr. Casey.”

Goddamn, but she sounded like a haughty librarian that was chastising me for talking too loud in the library.

She dressed like one, that was for sure.

She was wearing a black blouse that was buttoned up from the crook of her elbows, and then from the top of her collarbone all the way into the high waisted, skin tight, black skirt. A skirt that came down to her knees.

She was wearing what looked to be stockings, too, but I could neither confirm nor deny that.

Not without actually checking by pushing that tight skirt up, anyway.

“Sorry, Ms. Hanes,” I apologized, trying to make it sound genuine.

Apparently, I didn’t accomplish it, because she closed the leather-bound book she was writing in and uncrossed those goddamn legs.

She placed both high-heeled feet on the floor and stood up to her full height, which was all of five foot four, at most.

The heels she was wearing, however, made her height lengthen to about five seven, if I had to guess.

“That’s forty-five minutes,” she said, looking at her watch. “Thursday when you come in, we’ll start where you left off, all right?”

I shrugged and stood, too.

Then I walked toward the door without a backwards glance.