Bolt Action Champagne Books April 2010

Read an Excerpt of The Dream House Visions and Nightmares 

 

Chapter One

 

 

 

    Lying in the dark shadows of my bedroom, I startled at a slamming sound.  I felt

every hair on my arms crystallize as I grappled under the pillow for my Ruger

 Blackhawk .357 and flashlight.  Baby, my cat, startled to near death, screeched and ran

 from the bed.  My heart lurched in my chest.  In the silence of the night, the sound of the

 Ruger cocking ricocheted off the walls.

 

In an attempt to become undetectable in the darkness, I inhaled the slowest

breaths possible without passing out.  I felt convinced someone observed, perhaps studied

 my every movement.  Summoning courage with a prayer, I flipped the flashlight on and

 scanned my bedroom.  For the third time this week, nothing, no one present.

 

To ease my mind, I proceeded through my duplex with stealth-like movements, as

if I were responding to an armed intruder call.  Keeping my wrists crossed with my Ruger

 in my right hand, and the flashlight in my left I crept from one room to another turning on

 every light available.  With my duplex lit up like a landing strip, I positioned the

 flashlight on my oak end table.  Confident the twelve and a half inch barrel of my .357

 protected me I jerked open every closet door hoping someone waited to be shot.  I

 believe an apprehended suspect may be my chance at sanity putting to rest the repetitive  

 noises and feelings of being watched. 

 

With a predator like approach toward the bathroom, I noticed the shower curtain

stirring.  My pulse throbbed in my esophagus threatening to cut off my air supply. 

Creeping into my nineteen fifties Pepto Bismol pink bathroom, with a trembling hand I

grasped and jerked open the curtain.  The sound of the rings scraping against the rod

made a deafening screech. 

 

Still nothing. 

 

Succumbing to mental exhaustion I leaned my head against the bathroom door. 

“Shit.”  In the silence, the sound of my own voice startled me.  I can’t keep going

like this night after night.

A slamming noise vibrated between the duplexes.  Sprinting to the kitchen with

my Ruger leading the way, I pressed my face against the kitchen window and cupped my

hands around my eyes to peer into the driveway.  I surveyed the driveway I shared with

my neighbor Mark, but I couldn’t detect his car.  If he’s gone, where is the noise coming

from? I thought of one place I hadn’t checked.  With dread and trepidation, the reality

of entering the moldy, reeking storage area made my stomach contents feel like curdled

cottage cheese.  With my desire to find the source of the noises superseding my fear of

dark, damp spaces, I tucked the Ruger in the waistband of my drawstring sleep pants. 

            Out of my collection of guns I have stashed around my apartment I choose my

Browning A-Bolt Stainless Stalker rifle from behind the mop in the broom closet.  I

 headed in the direction of the enclosed storage area.  Flipping on the porch light in hopes

 of frightening an intruder I exited my front door, and as I reached the bottom of the

 wooden steps I could detect an outline of a person in front of the shadowed storage area

 door.

Cocking the rifle I warned, “Stop, I have a gun.”

 

“Calm down, Bolt.  It’s just me.” Lance Kestler ran his hand through his thick

 black hair as he stepped from the shadows into the glow of the porch light.

 
            “Oh for crying out loud.  What the hell are you doing here?”  I released the

trigger, “Did you just come out of my storage area?”

 

“No, I got out of my car and walked toward your door.”  Kestler placed his hands

on his trim waist line.  “How come you never wear your hair down during the day?”

 
            “I heard a door close.”

 

Kestler shrugged his broad shoulders covered by a black Fieora suit and wobbled

 on his feet.  “Must’a heard my car door.”

 

Headlights from a passing car shined toward me and I slid the rifle behind my

 back.  “Whatever.  It’s like midnight, what the hell do you want?”

 

“Well, I remember you don’t sleep much at night so I assumed you’d still be up. 

 Or maybe you just didn’t sleep at night because I kept you up, or should I say you

 kept me up.”  Kestler took a stumbling step forward.

 

I blew out a breath in frustration.  How did I ever get involved with this guy in the

first place?  “Get off it, Kestler.  You’ve been drinking.  What do you want?”

 

“Aren’t you gonna invite me in?”  He winked in his typical cocky manner.  “It’s

 been a long time since I’ve felt your firm body under mine.”

 

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes and shake my head back and forth.  “Are you

 kidding me?”

            “Look, I just want to apologize for how things have been going between us

 lately.”  Lance stumbled and dragged his hand across the side of the duplex to stabilize

 himself.

   

“Apologize?”  I could feel the rifle dig into my hand as I tightened my grip on it.  

“You can’t even talk in complete sentences.  How come you only show up and want to

talk when you’re drunk?”

 

Kestler advanced two steps toward me. “What’s wrong with you?  I’m trying

to rekindle a civil relationship between us, and you show up acting like Annie Oakley

the gunslinger.”

 

“You don’t do apologies, or favors without an ulterior motive.” I pointed the rifle

towards him.  “What the hell do you want?  Why don’t you just go home?”

 

“What?  You’re gonna shoot me? ”  Lance threw up his hands, pretending to

surrender, and laughed.

 

His humor was lost on me.  I wanted Kestler off my property and wanted him to

know I meant business.  “You’ve been drinking, and you’re trespassing.  I believed you

 were an intruder and I had to defend myself.”  I shrugged my shoulders.  “Sounds

 convincing.  I might be able to get someone to buy that.”

 

“You’d miss.”

 

My finger itched to pull the trigger.  “Don’t you remember my target scores

where always better than yours.”

 

Lance winked at me.  “That’s cause I was distracted by your cute ass.”

            I rolled my eyes.  “You are an ass.”

 

“I’m done with trying to be nice to you.”

 

“When did you start?”

 

“Screw you.”  He turned to stomp back toward his car.

 

I lowered the rifle and called out, “Kestler, you’ve been drinking.  Should I call

you a cab?  Do you need a cab?”

 

I heard him open his car door.  As I walked backward up the three steps to the

front door, it didn’t take detective skills to realize he didn’t have the ability nor the

 courtesy to answer me.  I watched him drive off and prayed he wouldn’t hit someone on

 his way home.  Retreating inside my apartment, I locked and dead bolted the front door. 

 

            Feeling secure, I returned the rifle to its spot behind the mop in my closet.  Feelings of

 infuriation with Lance Kestler made my hands jitter as if I had guzzled three pots of

 coffee. 

 

My gray and white cat, Baby, appeared from her hiding place and jumped on

the kitchen table and rubbed noses with me.  “Why do I let him get to me like that,

 Baby?”  I patted her on the head.  “Momma loves you.”

 

Retreating to my bedroom with Baby in my arms, I released her and retrieved my  

Blackhawk from the back of my sleep pants and placed it under the pillow and crawled

 under the covers.  I want to be prepared incase Kestler decides to return to my apartment.