by Alex Dean
RESTRAINING ORDER
ALEX DEAN
TREBOR AND TAYLOR PUBLISHING
Contents
Title Page
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
From The Author
Sneak Peek: The Bogeyman Next Door
Sneak Peek: The Bogeyman Next Door Continued
Sneak Peek: Stalked
Books by Alex Dean
About The Author
Acknowledgments
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ACCLAIM FOR RESTRAINING ORDER
"It's everything you've ever wanted in a who-dun-it!" Readers will be "pulled in" and held "captive" by this engaging read. Alex Dean's art of storytelling is quite evident in this timely thriller."
- Jennifer Banks, Pro Blogger
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Alex Dean
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and the theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting [email protected].
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Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
First Edition: September 2014
Second Edition: 2017
Manufactured in the United States of America
Author’s Note
Dear Reader,
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This 12000-word story is the beginning of the Alexis Fields Thrill Series, and chronicles her life from her move from Madison, Wisconsin, into a living hell that becomes more terrifying by the hour. The remaining parts in the series are all longer length books.
As always, thanks for reading.
Alex Dean
Chapter 1
WILFRED BACHMAN HUSTLED to his car, feeling anxious, feeling vengeful. He began taking in deeper breaths as he climbed into his Chevy, cranked the engine and gripped the steering wheel.
He reversed out of his parking space, then whirled out of the University of Wisconsin–Madison campus parking lot, almost running over two backpack-toting female undergrads in his wake.
He had called and texted Alexis Fields repeatedly, and was beginning to annoy her with his narcissistic personality, possessiveness and strong sense of entitlement. It was 5:35 P.M. He had waited outside of UW’s School of Medicine building, as he normally would. But there had been no sign of her. Was she still in class? Was she avoiding him? Or was she off somewhere frolicking with someone else? he thought.
“How dare she avoid me like this,” he mumbled as he reached in his glove compartment box for the almost empty prescription bottle of Zoloft. Twisting the cap off, he quickly downed the pill with a swig of Red Bull while driving. His ongoing bouts with anxiety and depression had made him a different person. He had become less sociable, less able to deal with stress and more edgy. The vehicle whizzed through downtown Madison, passing other traffic and large groups of students out for a night on the town, glad to be done with class for the day.
While driving and listening to the radio, Bachman glanced in his rearview mirror. There was a police cruiser behind him now, slowly approaching. Suddenly the cop activated his light bar and siren. Bachman quickly drew a deep breath. Then he pulled into the parking lot of a strip mall and slowed the Chevy to a stop. He stilled himself, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he watched the cop exit his cruiser and draw near, hand on gun.
“What’s the big hurry?”
“Oh, I’m sorry officer. I’m on my way to my girlfriend’s house. There’s been somewhat of an emergency.”
“What kind of emergency?”
“She’s pregnant. Close to giving birth any day now and…well, there seem to be some complications. I wanted to be there. She lives down on—”
“Keep your hands on the steering wheel where I can see them.”
The cop spoke briefly into his portable radio and then looked back at Bachman.
“License and proof of insurance?”
“My license is in my wallet, and my insurance ID card is in the glove compartment. Is it okay if I—?”
“Go ahead.”
Bachman reached into his back pocket for his wallet and then into the glove compartment. He handed both items over to the cop.
“Sit tight for a minute. I’ll be back.”
The officer walked back to his cruiser and got in. He punched Bachman’s information into a laptop. No hit. No outstanding warrants. Then he got out and walked back to Bachman’s black-on-black Chevy Camaro.
“If your girlfriend is having an issue, she needs to go to the hospital. I’m going to let you go today with a warning. But you need to watch your speed. Not only for your own safety. There’re a lot of pedestrians around here. Be careful,” the cop said as he handed back Bachman’s credentials.
“I will. Thank you, officer.”
Bachman started the ignition, slowly pulled out of the parking lot and headed due east. He kept his eyes on the road staying on West Johnson, a four-lane street flanked by hotels and restaurants on the left and apartments on the right.
He arrived in Alexis’s quaint neighborhood just as night fell. He figured if she was not home, her mother, Doris, should be. And if Alexis wasn’t there, he wanted to be there waiting when she arrived. He had fallen madly in love and hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her ever since he’d met her. But now he found himself consumed by thoughts that there was another man and couldn’t control his raging passion and jealousy.
He came to a sudden stop in front of her house, quickly exited his Camaro, and hurried along the sidewalk, up to the concrete porch of the one-story white frame house, ringing the doorbell.
After tossing some clothes in the dryer, Doris Fields slammed it shut and headed to the front door. She had been off for several weeks from her job. The luxury of being at home had been both necessary and purposeful. Necessary, because stress had been taking its toll on her health. And purposeful, because she wanted to spend time with her daughter before Alexis officially accepted a new job offer and moved out of state.
Doris opened the door to see Bachman standing on the porch. Texting.
“Wilfred, she’s not here. She hasn’t made it home yet,” she said curtly.
Bachman glanced up from studying his phone’s screen. He forced a fake smile. “Oh, hey, Ms. Fields. You know when you expect her?” he said, peering into the home as if he had doubts.
Doris shook her head. “No. I don’t. With the number of hours she’s putting in, her schedule’s all over the place. But I’ll let her know you came by.”
The smile faded from Bachman’s lips. “I was up at UW waiting for her. The least she could have done was give me an explanation.”
Doris’s gaze washed over him, his unkempt beard, his overall disheveled appearance. “You often show up on your own accord. My daughter doesn’t owe you an explanation. I’ve said all I have to say.”
Bachman’s eyes bore into the woman like an eagle eyeing its prey.
If only looks could kill.
; Doris Fields then slammed the door and bolted the lock. She had never warmed up to him. For the life of her, she never understood what her daughter ever saw in him. And ever since her husband had abandoned her and Alexis, her (once favorable) opinion of men had seemed to wane immensely.
Bachman got back in his car, pulled off and headed north on Acewood Boulevard. After negotiating several turns, he ended up on Cottage Grove Road going westbound. There was a heavy police presence. The street was blocked, and yellow tape was unspooled across the width of the road. He pulled up to the nearest parking space on the curb and got out of his car.
Then he walked up to a group of bystanders. A couple that had just given a witness interview to the police was waiting on the sidewalk. One of them, a young college student wearing jeans and a denim jacket stood by her boyfriend.
“What happened?” Bachman asked curiously.
“Smash and grab,” the girl said shaking her head. “This is the third time that jewelry store over there has been hit. But this time was worse.”
“How so?”
She turned toward Bachman, her face trembling in the cool nighttime air. “This time they shot the owner.”
Bachman’s expression turned quizzical. This was near the same stretch of road where the cop had stopped him earlier.
The young woman continued, “I work in the salon next door, and was coming outside to grab something for dinner and heard everything. Saw most of it. They rammed a van through the window. Then they just went in smashing the glass counters with some kind of small hammers. Scooping up as much jewelry as they could. It was three of them dressed in jeans and black hoodies. The owner, Mr. Skilling, they must have seen him hit the alarm or something. Because the next thing I knew, one of them pointed a gun and shot him in the shoulder. I bolted and ran back into the shop. Thankfully, he’s going to be okay.”
The woman pointed. “The cops told us the thieves abandoned the stolen van over there in the street. Apparently, they crashed into that row of parked cars, then got out and fled on foot.”
“How long before they open the street up?” asked Bachman.
“I have no idea,” said the woman.
The young student’s boyfriend, a tall and lanky college kid with dark hair, a thin mustache and matching goatee answered, “They said they’re waiting on a flatbed truck to move the van. I can’t believe it myself,” he said shaking his head. “This world is getting crazy, bro.”
“Yeah. That it is,” Bachman agreed. “I think I’ll kill some time in there and wait it out,” he said as he pointed to a sports bar and grill only a few doors down.
He walked roughly fifty feet and opened the heavy wooden door of the establishment. Inside, there was what looked like an after-work crowd, tossing up mugs, watching ESPN on flat screens.
He pulled out a chair and took a seat at the bar. A woman sitting next to him and apparently alone looked over and smiled. She was slim and petite, but looked somewhat standoffish despite the friendly greeting. Bachman couldn’t have cared less. He asked her if she were coming from work.
“Yeah.” She nodded. “I never miss happy hour. I’ve only been in Madison for about six months now. Job relocation.”
Bachman smiled. “Born and raised here, myself. Where you from?”
“L.A. I miss the nightlife, although not the high cost of living. My money goes a lot further here. The name’s Kelly,” she said, extending her hand.
“Wilfred. But everybody calls me Will.”
He seriously thought about trying to take things a step further, but didn’t want to add to an already drama-filled social life. The woman was dressed in a nice business suit and heels, but had a nice little rack he’d noted through her open jacket. He ordered a mug of beer and instantly drained it. Even against the advice of his doctors—he still drank alcohol while taking medication. Combining the two could potentially cause problems. Something even his mother had warned him against. But hey, whatever.
“I figured I’d come here and start anew. Not to mention the DM I worked under was a real tool,” Kelly went on. She raised her left hand, merging her index finger and thumb. “I was this close to filing a sexual harassment claim. Plus I’m single with no kids,” she said as she nursed her margarita.
“What do you do?” asked Bachman.
“Pharmaceutical sales. My employer is expanding here in the Midwest. It was higher pay, and I’ve heard really good things about Madison.”
Bachman thought this was funny to the point of being ludicrous. He’d lived here practically his whole life and could see it was different now. But still good compared to most other places, all things considered.
“And you?” she asked.
“Information Technology. I’m a computer programmer for a large insurance company,” he lied. He had actually lost his job eight months prior and could barely make ends meet, could barely keep up with the payments on his ride. Between looking for work and constantly keeping up appearances, it was eating at him from the inside out. Especially his ego.
Bachman suddenly reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his cell. He thumbed it alive and scrolled through various pictures of partially clothed women.
“The computer gig’s just for paying the bills. In my spare time, I’m working on this new dating app and website. It’s my real passion.”
Bachman shrugged and smoothed down his beard. “I know a dating site is not exactly groundbreaking in this day and age. But it allows me to meet new people. A chance to peek into their private lives. Their innermost fantasies. And anything else they care to upload. No. Only kidding. I’m not into it for cheap thrills.” He held up the phone in front of Kelly’s face to view its screen. “Here, check it out.”
Kelly stared at the phone’s screen and forced a fake smile. Then she looked up at him. Bachman seriously began to give her the creeps. What a strange cookie this guy seems to be. It’s a good thing he didn’t pay for my drink. The sooner she could get this bozo to leave, the better.
She glanced down to check her watch.
Which reminded him, he needed to reach Alexis. She had to be home by now. Kelly handed him the cell, and he turned in his seat to discreetly send a text:
Where are you? Who are you with? And why are you avoiding me?
He figured he was going to stop by Alexis’s house once more before he headed home. He ordered another beer and tossed it back before leaving. Then he turned toward the woman he’d just met here.
“I’ve got to run. It was nice meeting you. Next time drinks on me,” he said with a little wink.
The woman smiled. “Take care.”
Chapter 2
BACHMAN WALKED BACK OUTSIDE to his car. The streets were open and all of the emergency vehicles that had been there earlier were gone. He looked across the street and saw that the jewelry store’s windows were now boarded. A lone police cruiser still sat in front of it.
He drove back to Alexis’s house, pulled up to the curb and the first thing he’d noticed was that all of the lights were on. He got out of his car, walked to the porch and rang the doorbell.
He could hear what sounded like a party inside. There was music and laughter. Food and drinking. It pissed him off even more. Why hadn’t he been invited?
It was a celebration of Alexis finishing the required curriculum on her way to becoming a doctor. A dream come true. The job offers had been pouring in.
A well-muscled young man holding a Corona strolled across the hardwood floor of the living room, peering out the front door.
“Hey, Alexis, it’s that loser of a sidekick of yours… Bachman,” he yelled back, over the thumping beat of Daft Punk’s “Get Lucky,” and smirked.
Alexis stood to her feet, grabbed her cell phone, and muttered to her friend Carol that she’d be right back. She scuttled to the door, peered out the front window and reluctantly stepped outside onto the porch. Her heart raced, and there was a lump in her throat just at the sight of him. She had purposely not told Bachman about the impr
omptu soiree and had decided the relationship with him was unequivocally over, but she had yet to tell him personally. Just get it over with. Just tell him it’s over. Both thoughts raced through her mind.
Bachman was amped. His pulse hammered as he stood on the porch.
“Where have you been? I’ve been patiently waiting at your school for you, you conniving cunt.”
“Don’t you dare talk to me that way, and do you have to use such language—and be an absolute asshole every day?” she said nervously as the two glared at each other with fierce intensity.
“Listen, Will, you started out a really nice guy, but something’s come over you lately. I don’t know what it is, but it’s not something I care to deal with any longer, okay?”
Bachman’s face distorted. His eyes narrowed into tiny slits of hate. He was flabbergasted.
“So that’s it, huh? Now that you’re finishing school and talking about moving, you wanna break up? Just throw out the trash before you go? Is that it?”
“Look, we had our chance. It didn’t work out, and now I’m over it. It was never my intention to purposely hurt you. If I did, it’s all on me,” she said, gently patting her heart. “When people like us come to the conclusion that it’s not working, they move on. Besides, I’ve already accepted a position at a hospital in another state, and as you’re aware, I’ll be leaving soon.”
Bachman shook his head in disgust. “You’re pathetic. You are exactly who I thought you were, the same self-serving, backstabbing b—”
