Fire in His Eyes Copyright © 2013 MJ Nightingale
Published by MJ Nightingale
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Published: MJ Nightingale 1st January 2014: [email protected]
Editing: Brenda Wright and Keriann McKenna
Cover Design © Kari Ayasha
Formatting by: Brenda Wright
Permissions granted for copyrighted material:
Here Without You
Words and Music by Matt Roberts, Brad Arnold, Christopher Henderson and Robert Harrell
Copyright © 2002 SONGS OF UNIVERSAL, INC. and ESCATAWPA SONGS
All Rights Controlled and Administered by SONGS OF UNIVERSAL, INC.
All Rights Reserved Used by Permission
Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation
She Will Be Loved
Words and Music by Adam Levine and James Valentine
Copyright © 2002 by Universal Music - MGB Songs, Valentine Valentine, Universal Music - Careers and February Twenty Second Music
All Rights for Valentine Valentine in the United States Administered by Universal Music - MGB Songs
All Rights for February Twenty Second Music in the United States Administered by Universal Music - Careers
International Copyright Secured All Rights Reserved
Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation
This book is intended for a mature audience of eighteen and older.
ISBN-13: 978-1494742898
ISBN-10: 1494742896
First and foremost, this book could not have been written without my wonderful husband. He picked up the slack when I was consumed by writing. He is an amazing father, and my best friend. Thank you, Anthony, for encouraging me, and being there. I love you! Always Remember and Never Forget. And, even though I didn’t use your suggestions for certain scenes in the book, you know what I mean, I still like to hear your ideas. They gave me comic relief.
A big, big thanks goes out to my absolutely wonderful editors, Brenda Wright and Keriann McKenna. They selflessly volunteered to help me see this project through. Keriann got me started on this journey, and Brenda helped me to see it through putting all other work aside to do the final edits needed to make it what it now is. Through Facebook I connected with Keriann, and she is a blessing to me. When you get so close to a project and someone who has been in your same situation comes along to help you get through it with dignity and such class, it is a rare gift. She was able to guide me gently along the right path to make Fire In His Eyes a reality when it was in its roughest form. Thank-You Keriann, so much! Brenda, thank-you for coming along when I desperately needed someone to polish this book to perfection. You both mean a great deal to me.
I also need to thank my sister who encouraged me to do this. She was the inspiration behind the character of Ana, and will be the heroine of my next book.
I had fantastic beta readers who gave me awesome advice, encouragement and support; they saw holes in the story when I was too close to the project to see it. They pointed them out, they gave me their ideas and feedback. Invaluable to me are Tonya Mabe, Shannon White, Rachelle Creech, Dina Alexander, Ronda Brimeyer and Krystyn Katsibubas. Thank-you for helping me on this journey!
And thank you to Twinsie Talk Book Reviews and Brenda Wright for helping me format the book and helping me to promote it. I need to thank them, the groups and blogs, and all the people on Facebook who shared and liked my teasers and posts about Fire In His Eyes. None of this would have been possible without you.
My awesome cover designer was Kari Ayasha. I love her work and hope to have her design my covers for my next books in this series.
More than anyone though, I also need to say thank-you to Chelle Bliss, another new author, who encouraged me to get back to writing. Without her, I never would have started this whole project, and rediscovered my passion for writing. Her novel, Untangle Me, was an inspiration. She also served as my technical advisor in almost every way. Our nightly chats, brain picking sessions, and her advice have been invaluable in this new day and age of Indie authors and digital publishing. I am sure I drove her a little nuts with all my questions, but she patiently walked me through all of it. I can’t thank-you enough, Chelle. I hope we will be friends for a very long time, and maybe even write a book or two together.
I woke from the nightmare stifling the cry that wanted to tear itself from my throat by pressing both my hands over my mouth. I began to rock back and forth in my bed quickly trying to get the horrific images out of my head, but they wouldn’t leave me. I hadn’t had this nightmare, this dream, this remembrance of the past, in a very long time.
I stared in the dark at my vague reflection in the mirror. I was only able to make out the outline of my body sitting, rocking in my queen sized bed as my long brown hair cascaded over my face. I tried to control my breathing, but despite my best efforts, I was there again.
I was walking down the dark, narrow alley, a little drunk, on my way to my friend Marah’s apartment when I was pulled beyond her door by an unseen large figure. I stumbled, and nearly fell, but was jerked forward by a strong hand attached to a massive man in a grey hoodie.
“What?” I mumbled and croaked out, still too confused to panic. Everything was happening so fast.
“Shut-up, you slut!” The gruff voice hissed in the darkness as he dragged me to the very dark recesses of the alley and through me down onto the pavement behind a dumpster in the back.
“Ow,” I whimpered as my elbow and shoulder hit the pavement. I tried to get up, but grey hoodie pushed me back down. He began to unbuckle his belt and then unbuttoned and unzipped his faded blue jeans.
I was immediately terrified, but in my fear I couldn’t even scream. Why couldn’t I scream? My mouth opened and closed, and I tried to get my vocal chords to work, but nothing came out, and then a hand slammed across my face knocking me down again.
“You slut! Dancing like that. Teasing me, teasing us all, but no, Monica wouldn’t give us the time of day. You are too good for the likes of us, but you came in to our bar tonight. Miss Goody Two-Shoes, in your tight sweater, and jeans.”
I found my voice, as the blood from my split lip trickled into my mouth. “Please, no,” I cried. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry! Ha!” The voice snarled. “I’ll show you sorry.” The man in grey, pushed back his hoodie off his head. I recognized him immediately. His name was Burt. He and his brothers were trouble in this town. Always breaking the law, they had been arrested for drugs, car theft, vandalism, and an assortment of other crimes. They were all ruffians and troublemakers. His legs straddled mine, and one hand pinned both of mine over my head. I began to cry even more. I tried to move, but couldn’t. I was too drunk to fight, too far for anyone to hear, and he was too strong.
His alcohol laden breath overpowered my senses and I
turned my face away from the foul odor. “You dance like a whore. You dress like a whore. So, you are a whore, and I am going to show you what happens to whores.” He slapped me again, hard. I saw stars and felt him fumbling with my pants then tugging them down.
“No, please,” I whimpered. He slammed himself into me, taking my virginity, as pain seared through me. It hurt so badly. “Help!” I cried softly.
He grunted above me, pushed a few dozen times as I continued to whimper, and cry out softly.
“Hey! What’s going on here?” I heard a startled voice call out.
“Help, please!” I managed to get out.
“Get off her! Burt? Monica?” It was a small town.
Burt hastily got off me, and quickly pulled up his pants. He ran, knocking Marah’s brother, Richard, down on his way out of the alley.
Richard and Bonnie, his girlfriend at the time, helped me up. They took me to Marah’s.
I didn’t call the police. I was too ashamed. I was seventeen, drunk, and I believed it was my fault. I swore everyone to secrecy, and blamed myself for a very, very long time.
“Listen to me! You have to get right back in the saddle. You have kept yourself on the shelf way too long.” Ana’s voice coming through the phone brokered no argument. What Ana had to say was true, an understatement, to say the least. I had not done much SADDLE RIDING in my life and just recently found myself enjoying it.
When I did not respond and merely sighed in response, Ana continued. “Come on, Monica, you had fun with Dan, don’t let the disappointment of it not being long-term make you afraid to try again. You didn’t even love him. You both knew that relationship was going nowhere. You just liked the sex.” That, too, was an understatement and so like Ana. Blunt and honest to the core. The truth was, Dan had been fun. He was safe, funny, and a good friend with benefits. I never had to worry about him hurting me, and he taught me a lot about myself and about sex. I had denied myself for over ten years until Dan came along because I was too afraid of getting hurt and reliving that nightmare. How he had laughed when he met the twenty-eight year old “virgin.”
“I know,” I groaned into the receiver. “It’s just that Dan was not complicated. He was fun and nice.”
“Nice and easy and safe. Too safe. He was a friend, and I am glad I introduced you, but he has been transferred out of state, and you need to have a real relationship.”
“I am not looking for a relationship. I am only thirty and have plenty of time for a relationship.”
“Listen, Mon, you have done wonders in the past three years; you have dropped a ton of weight, finally got the counseling you needed all those years ago, learned to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh, but now you gotta live, too! Dan was safe, but I don’t want to see you dry up like some old hag on a shelf.”
“Ana, I am only thirty,” I repeated. “Plenty of time. Dan’s been gone only a year.”
“But a year without sex is a long time. You need to learn how to trust and have fun. You had that nightmare for a reason, Monica. You have not been out on the town in over a year. You haven’t had a date, a real date, since Dan left. You are getting into those Obsessive Compulsive Disorders again. I noticed your dishes the last time I was there.”
“I just like things neat,” I replied.
“Your patterns all faced in the same direction.”
I winced, even though she couldn’t see it. What she said was true. I had made a lot of progress in three years, but these last few months, I had noticed old patterns creeping back in. Defensive patterns that made me feel in control. Counting my steps, placement of objects, repetitive patterns. “Dan made me feel safe, Ana,” I repeated her earlier words.
“But you did not love Dan. Yeah, he oiled the tubes, but sex is better when it is with someone you love, not a partner to practice with, that is why you gotta put yourself out there. You gotta take a risk. You gotta stick more than your toes in the water, you gotta take the plunge, grab the bull by the horns!”
“You are such a horn dog!” I giggled. My sister was a nympho at eighteen, I swear. Knowing she would just keep hounding me until she got her way, I knew I would have to give in. The determined free spirit that was Ana, always got her way. She had our grandfather, and father wrapped around her little finger, and at thirty-four, had a slew of romantic entanglements on her hands. At thirty, I guess I was about to embark on relationship number two, or three, if you counted the unrequited love I had for my high school crush. “Okay, what do you suggest I do?” I relented.
“Yessssss!!!!,” she hissed. “I knew you would see it my way. Well, I know this club down in Tampa . . .” Ana began.
“A club!?” I panicked, the old fear resurfacing, as I held the phone to my ear with one hand and twisted my long brown hair around my finger with the other. “You never mentioned a club before!”
“What do you want to do? Go to the grocery store and check out guys for rings, or have me drag you into Home Depot and ask every cute guy if he is single? You’re such a virgin! You want a loaf of bread you go to the bakery, if you want a man you go to da club.” I couldn’t help but laugh at the way my sister spoke. We were like night and day, but she was always the one and only who could pull me out of my funk. “Listen, I will be with you,” she added reassuringly.
“All right, give me some details, please.” You couldn’t argue with Ana for long. When she had her mind made up, it was just a matter of time before you gave in.
“All right. The place is called the Blue Martini, and it is ladies’ night tomorrow night so all the single guys will be on the prowl and buying us drinks to get us into bed. Wear something tight and sexy. I am wearing those black slacks and that glittery gold tank top, the one with the sequins. Wear a skirt and show off those long legs of yours, okay?”
“But tomorrow is Thursday, and I have to work on Friday. I can’t stay out late and get up in the morning for work!”
“Puh-lease, Miss Teacher Prude. You’re thirty, not dead! Stop with the excuses. WE ARE going! We will be home by three; and you will get up at seven, and be to work by seven twenty. Throw in a movie for the kids to watch and you can take a nap when you get home. I’ll pick you up at nine.”
“I never let my students watch movies!” I replied appalled.
“Well, you will on Friday!” And she hung up.
I looked in the mirror in my bathroom, put the finishing touches on of my make-up, and was pleased with the outcome. I used a bit more mascara to draw more attention to my large brown almond shaped eyes. I chose to wear a form fitting denim skirt and my beige crocheted halter top. The golden tan I sported from many days in the sun during spring break gave me a nice glow. I did not need much make-up, just the mascara, a bit of shadow, and lip gloss completed my look.
I heard Ana’s SUV pull up in the drive way, and the front door opened as she came bouncing into the living room. “Are you ready, Mon?” she called out.
“I’m in the bathroom. I will be out in a sec,” I replied.
“Okay!” Ana hollered back.
I finished with my mascara and walked out into the living room where she sat on my new suede sofa channel surfing. I had just remodeled the house over the summer, doing the work myself, even the tiling. I was proud of the woman I was becoming; confident, independent, and no longer afraid of her shadow. I just wished I had not wasted so much time, and had gotten the help I needed after I was raped when I was seventeen. But I tried not to dwell on that any longer.
“You look fantastic, Mon! You need heels, though. God, your calves are amazing! Rock solid, and your arms. The weight training is doing wonders for your tone!”
“Thanks, Ana!” She always complimented me lately. Three years ago, when I finally decided I needed help, she had been by biggest supporter. I barely left my house. But because of the therapy, I had been able to deal with the rape, had lost the eighty pounds I had gained and began to work out and tone my body. I no longer hid in my home, no longer avoided the male species like the plague, and
had begun a work out regime. I biked twenty miles a day on the weekends, ran five during the week, and did weight training every other day. The weight had been another issue. Over the years, I put on weight to make myself invisible to men so they wouldn’t find me attractive. I hid in nondescript clothes, and tried to blend into the background whenever I was out of my home, which had been for school or work only. Therapy helped me learn these things about myself. It helped me face my demons, deal with my guilt, my OCD, and why it had developed in the first place.
“You look like you’re twenty! I am so jealous!” Ana patted her belly.
“Ana, you look good, too!” And, she did. She had long auburn hair that she got from our mother, and hazel eyes. She was tall for a woman at six feet, to my five eight, and held herself well, despite being just a tad overweight. Being diabetic, she carried the few extra pounds around her middle. Nothing like the situation I had found myself in after eating myself into obesity to thwart any male advances. Her face was like a porcelain china doll, with a pointed chin, a smattering of freckles across her cheeks, and a heart shaped face. She had never been without a suitor or male companionship for longer than a few weeks. This was one of those times.
“Okay, go get those heels. I am ready to par-tay!” She got up from the sofa, and followed me into my bedroom. “I love what you have done to the house. It looks great. You will have to come by my place and give me some decorating tips.”
“You are the queen of clutter, woman. My tip is to buy a shed!” She laughed as she looked at the floor of my closet and picked out a pair of brown sandals with a three inch heel.
“Ooo! These,” she said, handing me the pair she had stooped down to get.
I leaned on my queen sized bed, and strapped on the heels.
“Let’s rock’n roll.” I followed Ana out of my room, down the hall, and out the door.
Here we go, I thought, a bit nervously.
We got to the Blue Martini, a little after ten o’clock, and the place was nice but not too crowded. It was very large with an open floor plan. There were several bars that served drinks spread sporadically throughout and a large dance floor in the center. It also had six pool tables near the back. I followed Ana through the bar until we found an area deemed appropriate for us to sit.
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