John Locke - Saving Rachel

SAVING RACHEL

by

John Locke

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

SAVING RACHEL

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Copyright © 2009 John Locke. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

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ISBN: 978-1-935670-02-5 (eBook)

Published by: Telemachus Press, LLC

http://www.telemachuspress.com

Visit the author website: http://www.lethalbooks.com

ePublished and Distributed by: http://www.smashwords.com

For my brother, Ricky, whose approval still matters.

PART ONE:SAM CASE

Chapter 1

Maybe it isn’t fair, but I blame Karen Vogel for what just happened.

I mean, sure, I’d made the first move, and true, I’d plotted her seduction with all the precision of the Normandy invasion. I baited the hook with romantic candlelit dinners, private dining rooms, and elegant wines. I’m the one who made all the promises, bought the clothes, the mushy cards, and glittering jewelry.

But none of this would have happened if Karen Vogel hadn’t been so … gorgeous.

We’re in Room 413, Brown Hotel, Louisville, Kentucky, 10:15 am. My twenty-something-year-old conquest lies on the bed watching me through eyes like aquamarine crystals. I’m scrambling into my pants, tucking in my shirt, but those piercing eyes freeze me in place, and I’m like a deer caught in the headlights.

Karen rolls onto her side, props her chin on her fist, and says, “You meant what you said, right, Sam?”

Her toned, athletic body features long legs and a belly so fl at I can see two inches down the front of her panties, elevated as they are between two perfect hips. It’s a good view, the kind you never get tired of, and I get that feeling again, like I’m riding a lucky wave. I mean, I just banged Karen Vogel!

“I meant every last word,” I say.

“It was just three words,” she laughs, flashing her dazzling White-Cliffs-of-Dover smile, and I’m thinking, If I couldn’t bang Karen, I’d pay serious coin just to watch her brush her teeth!

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. Go ahead, tell me I’m pathetic. I won’t deny it. But I’m the one standing in a hotel room with the semi-naked and infinitely beautiful Karen Vogel, not you. And of course, I’m the one she loves. What? You don’t believe me? Keep reading. I’ll prove it. “I love you, too, Sam,” she says. “That’s why I did this.” See?

She could have asked me to free Charlie Manson, watch an Oprah film festival, or swim up a ninety-mile-an-hour river of shit to Spain, and I’d have done it. But all I had to do to get in her pants was say, “I love you.”

I won’t lie. I could tell you I’ve had my share of beautiful women, and I’d be telling the truth—provided my share is equal to one. So yeah, if I’m brutally honest, I’ve slept with one beautiful woman before today. And her name is …

Her name is Rachel.

I don’t really want to talk about Rachel right now, but I’ll give you a promo and you can be the judge. It’s been years since we dated, but in those days, Rachel was coltishly beautiful. She had long brown hair with blond highlights and eyes the color of tupelo honey. Her face was unique, a fabulous contradiction for a young computer geek like me. Angular and beautiful, her face suggested a sophisticated bearing. But her ever-present, enigmatic smile identified her as a keeper of naughty secrets.

At her best, Rachel wasn’t in Karen Vogel’s league, but honestly, who is? No one I’ve ever seen. Karen is superstar gorgeous, a French Riviera head-turning, jaw-dropping beauty. So if you’re saying Karen’s the measuring stick, then Rachel, along with the rest of the planet’s women, can’t reach it. But with Rachel’s looks, you take it all in and maybe you decide the word you’re searching for isn’t beautiful , but something even more special.

She had been adorable.

I see Karen watching me from her perch on the bed. I know I’m supposed to say something to her now, something reassuring, but there’s a disconnect between my brain and mouth. So I just keep staring at her, freezing the moment in time, wondering what’s going to happen between us from here on out, and realizing we’ve both upped the ante in our relationship.

I zip my pants, notch my belt, step into my seam-stitched Prada loafers, and wonder if it’s true. Do I really love her? Perhaps not as much as she loves my money, I think. Then again, it’s hard to measure these things when you’re only a month into the relationship.

I kiss her good-bye and take the elevator down to the hotel parking garage.

In case you care, I drive an Audi R8, red with a black vertical stripe just back of the cabin. This sexy, low-slung rocket runs a hundred thirty grand and turns heads faster than Paris Hilton crossing her legs in a biker bar.

So I’m in the parking garage, fishing in my pocket for the keyless remote when I hear a crackling sound and— Christ! —something zaps my calf muscle from behind. I turn to see what’s happened, and the next thing I know, I’m rubbing the back of my neck where it feels like someone stuck me with a hypodermic needle.

I’m groggy, but I feel movement and realize I’m in the back seat of a stretch limo with two guys. The one on the left is a muscle-head; looks like Mr. Clean on steroids. The other guy’s a well-dressed older man with slicked-back gray hair. He’s wearing a black silk suit with vertical white lines and a white tie. The voice in my head is saying, Oh shit, this is the real deal, and the voice is right. This is a full-fl edged gangster sitting across from me, and he’s just asked me something. Unfortunately, my head is in a fog and I’m still reeling, so I can’t quite make out what he said.

Trying to buy time to get my bearings, I say, “I’m sorry. Who are you? What did you just say?”

“Your wife,” he says.

I look around. He’s talking to me? His words seem to be coming from deep in a well. Did he just ask me about my wife?

“What about her?” I ask.