Southern Bound - A Paranormal-Mystery (Max Porter Mysteries Book 1) by Stuart Jaffe
Authors: Stuart Jaffe
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metallic blue under the parking lot lights and pointed it at Sandra. Max gasped for enough air to speak, his lungs burning and his stomach stuck in a tight clench, but he only managed to cough up phlegm.
The heavy man grabbed Max's hair and wrenched his head back. Max could see Sandra shaking, her face looking upon him, terrified she might never see him again. He wanted to reach out to her, to give her some assurance they would be fine, but the gun pointed at her head kept him wondering.
"Stop looking into things that don't matter anymore," the heavy man said, his breath reeking of alcohol. Another punch to the gut and a kick in the side capped off the performance. Then the two men dashed off into the darkness. As Max rolled to his side, Sandra raced over and wrapped her arms around him.
She whispered words he could not decipher, and he knew the words were more for her own comfort than his. After a few minutes, his stomach muscles loosened a little, and he found the strength to stand. Pain shot from his side. He prayed they hadn't broken his ribs — paying for medical care was not a line item in the Porter budget.
Later, in their kitchen, Sandra helped Max ease out of his shirt. He winced and groaned but managed.
"That looks pretty bad," she said, placing an icepack over the purple/black bruise on his side.
"Easy," he said, hissing air as he lowered his arm onto the icepack.
"Don't be a baby."
"I got kicked in the ribs!"
"And I had a gun to my head," Sandra said, slamming a second icepack onto the table. Her hands shook, and her face quivered as tears welled in her eyes. She rubbed them away and returned to checking his wounds.
"We're okay now. We can relax. It's all over."
"No, it's not. You know that. I heard what he said to you. This was just a warning."
"They may not even have had the right guy."
"Bullshit! They targeted you and you know it," Sandra said and the two locked eyes like poker players attempting to cover all sense of meaning in their expressions. Breaking away, Sandra fixed a glass of cola for Max and said, "Doesn't look like you've got any broken bones."
"At least that much is good."
"Sure," she said, the sarcasm dripping heavy and thick, "real good. Just wonderful, in fact. We ought to get attacked more often."
Max sipped his cola and said, "I know it was scary and all, but it's over."
"Stop saying that. I'm not a child and I'm not a fool. This was a warning. To you. This is all because of Drummond, isn't it? It is. I can see it in your face. So, you tell me right now, what's going on?"
Despite her stern mouth, Max saw the fear dancing on her skin. He knew exactly how she felt. He felt it, too. Anger strong enough to tear down walls. Fear powerful enough to keep him frozen.
"I don't know if it's the Drummond thing. I don't. Honest. I mean it probably is, but I don't know one hundred percent for sure. But come on, now, this shouldn't be such a shock."
"What?"
"We both know something's not right about my employer."
"What are you saying?"
Max gestured to the chair opposite him and waited for her to sit. Sandra glanced at the chair; then leaned against the counter. "It's truth time," he said. "Okay? Don't you think? No more pretending. We've both kept quiet about it. We've both ignored all the red flags smacking us in the face because we wanted the money, the security. We wanted to get out of the mess in Michigan."
"You made that mess."
"I'm not trying to dredge up all that. I just —"
Sandra shook her head as she pulled a beer from the refrigerator. "I see how you want this," she said. "It's truth time but only when you've got something to say."
"No, I just didn't want us to rehash an old fight."
"Well, we're here, right now, talking about all of this because of that old fight. Maybe we should consider finishing it this time."
Never before had Max seen his wife carry such a harsh expression. Disgust and hatred filled him at the sight — not for her but towards himself. He had
The heavy man grabbed Max's hair and wrenched his head back. Max could see Sandra shaking, her face looking upon him, terrified she might never see him again. He wanted to reach out to her, to give her some assurance they would be fine, but the gun pointed at her head kept him wondering.
"Stop looking into things that don't matter anymore," the heavy man said, his breath reeking of alcohol. Another punch to the gut and a kick in the side capped off the performance. Then the two men dashed off into the darkness. As Max rolled to his side, Sandra raced over and wrapped her arms around him.
She whispered words he could not decipher, and he knew the words were more for her own comfort than his. After a few minutes, his stomach muscles loosened a little, and he found the strength to stand. Pain shot from his side. He prayed they hadn't broken his ribs — paying for medical care was not a line item in the Porter budget.
Later, in their kitchen, Sandra helped Max ease out of his shirt. He winced and groaned but managed.
"That looks pretty bad," she said, placing an icepack over the purple/black bruise on his side.
"Easy," he said, hissing air as he lowered his arm onto the icepack.
"Don't be a baby."
"I got kicked in the ribs!"
"And I had a gun to my head," Sandra said, slamming a second icepack onto the table. Her hands shook, and her face quivered as tears welled in her eyes. She rubbed them away and returned to checking his wounds.
"We're okay now. We can relax. It's all over."
"No, it's not. You know that. I heard what he said to you. This was just a warning."
"They may not even have had the right guy."
"Bullshit! They targeted you and you know it," Sandra said and the two locked eyes like poker players attempting to cover all sense of meaning in their expressions. Breaking away, Sandra fixed a glass of cola for Max and said, "Doesn't look like you've got any broken bones."
"At least that much is good."
"Sure," she said, the sarcasm dripping heavy and thick, "real good. Just wonderful, in fact. We ought to get attacked more often."
Max sipped his cola and said, "I know it was scary and all, but it's over."
"Stop saying that. I'm not a child and I'm not a fool. This was a warning. To you. This is all because of Drummond, isn't it? It is. I can see it in your face. So, you tell me right now, what's going on?"
Despite her stern mouth, Max saw the fear dancing on her skin. He knew exactly how she felt. He felt it, too. Anger strong enough to tear down walls. Fear powerful enough to keep him frozen.
"I don't know if it's the Drummond thing. I don't. Honest. I mean it probably is, but I don't know one hundred percent for sure. But come on, now, this shouldn't be such a shock."
"What?"
"We both know something's not right about my employer."
"What are you saying?"
Max gestured to the chair opposite him and waited for her to sit. Sandra glanced at the chair; then leaned against the counter. "It's truth time," he said. "Okay? Don't you think? No more pretending. We've both kept quiet about it. We've both ignored all the red flags smacking us in the face because we wanted the money, the security. We wanted to get out of the mess in Michigan."
"You made that mess."
"I'm not trying to dredge up all that. I just —"
Sandra shook her head as she pulled a beer from the refrigerator. "I see how you want this," she said. "It's truth time but only when you've got something to say."
"No, I just didn't want us to rehash an old fight."
"Well, we're here, right now, talking about all of this because of that old fight. Maybe we should consider finishing it this time."
Never before had Max seen his wife carry such a harsh expression. Disgust and hatred filled him at the sight — not for her but towards himself. He had
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