Libra Rising
Copyright
Libra Rising is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
LIBRA RISING: A NOVEL
Copyright © 2018 by Stacy M Wray
All rights reserved.
Editing by KP Editing
Cover design by KP Designs
Published by Kingston Publishing Company
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Table of Contents
Copyright
Table of Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Contact
Dedication
To my Aunt Linda – so many things I will miss about you.
Thank you for your never-ending support – I still feel it.
Prologue
Reed
May 2010
A mosquito buzzes around my head, taunting me, just daring me to lift my fisted hand to swat it away. I don’t dare move a muscle. Not even to wipe the sweat from my eyes, slowly descending my forehead as it settles into the corners, stinging, burning.
Instead, I remain frozen, holding my breath, fearful that they may sense my presence.
I’m not going down again – especially when I had absolutely nothing to do with this. Fuck Troy Leery and his stupid ideas.
A ray of light slices above my head, causing me to lower my body - a kneejerk reaction I can’t help. The beam sweeps back and forth, reminding me of a lighthouse documentary I once watched on TV. What I wouldn’t give to be on a deserted beach right now, watching the light glide across the ocean, the water glistening in its wake. Anywhere but here, so close to my imminent demise.
Their voices fade into the blackness of the night, moving away. Stupid fucks.
I have no idea where the others are hiding since we scattered like cockroaches upon hearing the car skid to a stop. No warning. No sirens off in the distance. Only the unwelcome greeting of car doors slamming, and the glow of red lights bouncing off the walls in the diner.
I remain crouched low for another ten minutes or so, my legs cramping before I finally decide it’s safe to ease my way out from my hiding spot. My head inches higher and higher as I strain to see above the brush, leaves poking my face from every direction.
Placing one foot cautiously in front of the other, I tap the rubber sole of my shoe on pavement. I finally swat at that goddamn mosquito, claiming victory when I pull my hand back and see a small smearing of blood in the palm of my hand.
“Don’t take another step. Put your hands where I can see them.” Those dreaded words I didn’t want to hear, delivered in a smooth, firm voice, send my thudding heart plummeting into my stomach. Fuck!
Without giving it another thought, my body turns and sprints into the alley just steps from my hiding space, trying to outrun the asshole’s warnings. Breathing through my nose, pumping my arms in a steady rhythm, I don’t dare look back as I run. I can hear the strikes of his shoes pounding on the asphalt, inching nearer as I come upon a fence. Are you fucking kidding me?
Story of my life.
But tonight, I feel like my luck’s about to change. His footsteps sound far enough away that I think I can clear it before he reaches me.
Slamming into the chain-linked metal, I swiftly raise a leg. Just as I’m about to make the swing, two fists clutch the fabric of my shirt, yanking me back so hard that the neck of my T-shirt nearly chokes me as I go down. Hard.
The stupid cop has a knee dug into my back as he reaches for his cuffs, laughing smugly under his panting breaths. “Stupid punk-ass kids. You got nothing better to do on a Wednesday night?”
I struggle beneath his weight, but he already has the cold steel wrapped around one of my wrists. The latch of the cuffs click into place.
I’m going to fucking kill Troy Leery.
Chapter One
Harper
June 5-11, 2010
Aries Horoscope: The 6th through the 7th sees you not only clumsy, but given to mistakes, acting too hasty, poor decision making and an overwhelming start to the week. The full moon may have you slightly insecure this week, talkative, given to rambling at times if you are nervous, and possibly impetuous with a lover if you have challenges elsewhere in your life. Calculation, misjudging personalities, especially elders, coworkers, Libra, Pisces or Gemini are possible near the 7/8th.
Laying down the newspaper – which I only read for my horoscope - I rinse my coffee cup in the sink before turning it upside-down to dry on the yellow, tattered dish towel. Looks like an interesting week ahead.
I begin my summer job today. The corners of my mouth lift slightly as I remember the day, a month or so ago, I walked across the street and down the way to Mr. Hainley’s farmhouse. I passed the purple and white crocuses nestled against our front porch, over to our weather-beaten mailbox, the faded red flag still hanging on for dear life. Across the asphalt road peppered with bumpy patches of tar is the immaculately-groomed lawn with its shiny copper mailbox. Past that, I climbed up the red brick steps, to the home of the aforementioned Mr. Hainley.
Being only fifteen years old, and in dire need of earning some money this summer, I needed a job that I could walk to. Problem was, I lived in the country, surrounded by nothing but farmland in the town of Warsaw, Indiana. Mr. Hainley’s farm was the closest employment opportunity within a couple of miles. Having been his neighbor all my life, I knew he lived alone, was getting up there in age, and I was sure he could use a little female touch around his house. So, after knocking on the glass pane of his front door one early Saturday morning, I railroaded him into hiring me on a temporary basis. I would do domestic work such as laundry, cleaning, meal preparation, and anything else he needed me to do. After all, it’s everything I’d been doing since I was twelve. That was the year a brain aneurysm stole my mom from me, leaving me with a mess of a dad whom I can’t rely on these days. He’s dealt with his
grief the only way he knew how – the liquid demon, as I liked to call it.
According to my horoscope, I need to do my best at not judging the personality of Mr. Hainley. I know him well enough but now, he’s not just my neighbor. He’s my boss. To prove to him that he didn’t make a mistake in reluctantly hiring me, I plan on extending the best traits my momma passed down to me - especially her “knock ‘em dead” meatloaf. Just one bite and Mr. Hainley will wonder how he survived all this time without me.
Glancing at the clock on the stove, I maneuver my way through the clutter of our family room. Dad didn’t make it to bed again last night. His thin, frail body is stretched out along the length of our thread-bare couch, one arm hanging down the side, just grazing the floor, the other resting atop his stomach. Picking up the empty bottle of whiskey from the sticky coffee table, I retrace my steps back to the kitchen, depositing it into the trash can underneath the sink. My chest aches as my mind travels back in time.
He was vibrant. He was constantly working with my mom in the flowerbeds, and he hung the swing on the front porch, so she could watch the sun slowly make its descent to the ground below. They used to dance in the kitchen in the middle of doing the dishes, bubbles flying off their hands as he twirled her around. Instead of seeing the light shine brightly in his eyes, I’m only ever graced with vacant, sad stares and a forced smile to let me know he’s sorry he can’t be more.
Instead of feeling sorry for myself, I vow to never stop searching for a love like theirs. I tell myself I’ve got plenty of time as I head out the front door, traipsing through the dewy grass that the sun hasn’t had a chance to dry yet. The pungent smell of worms hits me before I reach the end of my drive. The air hangs a little heavy today - the damp of the rain from last night clings to the atmosphere, already causing my hair to frizz.
A passed-out dad, wormy smells, or frizzy hair isn’t enough to pierce my good mood today. My first job awaits me. Even though I won’t fill out tax forms or provide my social security card, it’s still my first real job and I intend to give it my all. Being an Aries, I always look for the good in everything, even if the odds are against me.
Climbing the familiar red bricks, I gently knock on the glass pane of the door, releasing a cleansing breath in the process. In mere moments, the door opens. A lopsided grin appears on Mr. Hainley’s face.
“Ah, I see you remembered. Was kinda hopin’ you’d forget,” he says, scratching the back of his head. His words don’t come across as mean, just matter-of-fact. He steps back to let me pass, and I stay put in the foyer as he shuts the door.
“I’ve been looking forward to this, Mr. Hainley. I would never forget,” I tell him, winking to keep the mood light. I study him for a moment while he stares back at me, probably wondering why he agreed to employ me.
He has a receding hairline, but plenty of gray hair left, and bushy eyebrows, too. He’s a nice-looking man. His eyes are somewhat droopy, one more so than the other, and his ears stick out. I also notice his face has deep lines, most likely from being out in the Indiana sun for too long. He reminds me of Ian McKellen which is why I think I like him so much. Nothing like having my very own Gandalf right across the street, sans the long hair, bushy beard and staff.
“Very well, then. Just follow me and I’ll show you where things are.”
As we walk past his living area, I can tell he keeps a tidy house, but I smile when we pass a bookcase with a layer of dust floating across the top. Yep, he needs me. We arrive in the kitchen and it’s a bit dated. An almond-colored refrigerator is nestled between counters the color of vanilla ice cream, not quite white but not quite yellow. The pale green curtains that hang on the window above the stainless-steel sink, faded from years of constant sunshine, appear slightly tattered along the edges.
Pulling out a kitchen chair with a patterned cushion tied to the seat, he nods toward it. He seats himself in the one across from mine, with a matching cushion, of course. “So, what exactly are you plannin’ on doin’ while you’re here?”
I smile at him, wondering if he completely forgot our conversation a month ago. “Well, I thought I would clean the house, cook you any meals you might need, and do your laundry, for starters.”
A strange expression crosses his face. “Not sure how I feel about some stranger handlin’ my boxers. Whole thing strikes me as odd. I’ve been doin’ my own laundry as long as I can remember.”
Trying to stifle my laugh, I remain as serious as I can be. “I’m just trying to make things a little easier for you. You don’t have to worry about what’s going on inside the house when you have so much to take care of outside.” His fingers lightly tap on the Formica tabletop, one right after the other, causing me to wonder if this is just a natural habit of his.
Mr. Hainley’s farm has corn, wheat, and bean crops, as well as a few horses he keeps. There’s no cattle or other farm animals, but it’s a big enough operation that I’ve noticed he has help with the planting and harvesting. I don’t really know that much about farming. Our house is one of the few on this road that doesn’t farm for a living. My dad lost his job as an insurance salesman after my mom died, not being able to get himself to work on a regular basis. I know they kept him on as long as they possibly could, trying to be compassionate, but I get why they had to let him go. Now, he works as a janitor at the high school, his attendance much better than it used to be. He is what I would call a functioning alcoholic. Only, he doesn’t function too well at home, immediately reaching for that bottle before he plants himself on the couch in front of the television.
Mr. Hainley pats his hand flat on the table a couple of times, conveying to me he’s about to say something important. “There’s been a development since we last spoke,” he says with a heavy sigh. “A situation, if you will.” I’m not sure if I’m supposed to respond yet, since it looks like he’s mulling the situation over before he proceeds.
“I’ve got a boy comin’ to spend the summer – a troublemaker of sorts. He’s about your age, sixteen, and I’m supposed to whip him into shape.” He grins at this. “Somethin’ I used to do a while ago – got a reputation as bein’ a hard ass. That, and good ol’ fashion farm work, tends to turn them boys around.” He sits back in his chair now, as if he’s thinking about those boys. But, as if he just remembered I’m still here, he sits back up quickly and says, “You’re a pretty little lady and I don’t want any trouble between the two o’ you. What I mean is, I remember what it’s like to be a sixteen-year-old boy. I don’t want hormones to be flyin’ around this farm like a bee between flowers, if you know what I mean.”
I feel instant heat to my cheeks, wondering why he’s telling me this. “I can assure you I don’t have any interest in some troublemaking boy. You don’t need to worry, Mr. Hainley.”
“It ain’t you I’m worried about,” he mumbles. “Just thought I’d better give you a heads up. And…one of the first things I need you to do today is get his room ready.” He stands now and says, “Follow me. There’s a small bunk room on the other side of the horse stable. Just has a room with a small bathroom attached…nothin’ fancy.”
I stand and follow him out the kitchen door, the moist air feeling even heavier than when I first left my house. My mind drifts to the occupant of the bunk room. Having someone my own age around for the summer sounds appealing, especially since I plan on working as much as Mr. Hainley allows. I wonder what kind of trouble he’s been in and if he’ll be a total jerk. I’ve got enough of those douchebags in my high school. Before I can wonder any further, we arrive at the room.
He pulls open the mildly squeaky door. His description was completely accurate. There’s barely any room to walk between the bed and small dresser inside. I notice teeny-tiny dust particles floating in the sunbeam that shoot across the room through the small window to my right. The place smells a little musty, like it’s not been used in quite some time. I sneeze abruptly, Mr. Hainley blessing me.
After a moment, he asks, “Think you can do somethin�
�� with it?”
Stepping into the cramped bathroom, I turn to him and ask, “How much time do I have?”
He smiles and says, “He’ll be here some time tomorrow.”
I nod slowly. “Guess I better get to work, then.”
He leads me back to the house to the mudroom and opens the closet door that houses various cleaning supplies, buckets, mops, and brooms. Next, I follow him to a linen closet, where he gives further instruction to which bedding and towels the “situation” can use during his stay.
“Any questions?”
Shaking my head, I tell him, “No, I’ll be fine.”
Clearing his throat, he replies, “Good. Now, I’ve got a lot of work to do.” He turns to leave, stops abruptly, then adds, “I like to have my lunch at one o’clock. Anythin’ that’s in my fridge or cupboards will do.”
“I’ll have it ready.” And with that, he’s out the door.
Peeking into his pantry and then in his fridge, I decide I’ll make tuna salad for lunch. With that decided, I start transferring cleaning supplies into a bucket, grab some rags and a broom, and cross the lawn to the bunk room.
After taking up a good chunk of my morning, the room is finished by eleven. I made several trips back to the house to retrieve bedding, towels, and toilet paper. I even went as far as to set a vase of tiger lilies on top of his dresser, making the place look not quite so drab. I managed to get the window open, letting a soft breeze flow through. I wonder how he’s going to survive the heat as the summer drags on.