The Perfect-Perfect Plan
Melanie Jones Brownrigg
Amazon
Copyright © 2021 Melanie Jones Brownrigg
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by: Melanie Jones Brownrigg
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
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
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
ENDING NUMBER ONE
ENDING NUMBER TWO
Acknowledgement
About The Author
Books By This Author
CHAPTER ONE
Douglas
My eyes are focused on her tight little ass as she leans forward on her bike and pedals not only against a soft breeze, but a slight incline. She’s wearing those tight spandex shorts that fit her like a glove, accentuating her flat stomach as well as her firm thighs. Her spiral-curled blonde hair and nice ample boobs bounce as she flies over a bump she doesn’t quite miss.
I’ve been watching her for weeks now. With my reputation on the line, research is important, and I cannot afford any surprises. By now, I practically know her as well as she knows herself. My girl on the bike rarely socializes with her coworkers. Her family lives a good two hours away and her closest friend just set sail for a four-day cruise. Otherwise, she’s a loner. And I don’t expect her cat to tell anyone about me. She’s my best target yet. My job will be a piece of cake.
Prior to this point, I have followed her in my black Lincoln Navigator. I have been careful to stay far away to avoid any connection. But in the off chance she may have spotted me previously tracking her, today I am in a completely different vehicle, a silver Audi Q3. It’s our family car. Normally there are two child seats in the back. And I say normally because today they have been removed for my little adventure. Since I know you’re curious, one is for my five-year-old hellion that my wife insisted on naming Henry after her grandfather. The second seat is for the three-year-old, Sophia, or “Sissy” as she is sometimes referred to. She’s going to be worse than the boy. They both drive me nuts. Sometimes I delay in getting home from work until after they’re tucked in bed. That way I don’t have to listen to their constant yammering. If you don’t have kids, heed my warning: I do not recommend them.
My gal rounds the corner on her bike and heads down the stretch. My stomach muscles are tightening, knowing we’re nearing the point of impact. Yes, I’m going to run her over. It’ll just be a slight bump and I’ll claim it was an accident. Immediately I’ll jump from my car and run to her rescue. It’s all part of my perfect-perfect plan.
There’ll be a little moaning on her part, and she may shed a tear or two. But that’s when I’ll infiltrate her life. My knight in shining armor will make its presence known. I’ll throw her bike in my trunk and whisk her to the care center conveniently located only a few blocks away. From there, I’ll take her home – her house, of course – and over the next few days I’ll act like Prince Charming. In no time flat, she will fall head-over-heels in love with me. It won’t take long since I’m overly handsome and super charming. Yes, I’m married. And no, she won’t know it. And neither will my wife. But in the not-so-distant future, she’ll be nothing more than putty in my hands.
And that’s when I’ll make my true moves. And trust me, when it’s all over, not only will she never know what hit her, she’ll be good and dead.
CHAPTER TWO
Douglas
She is extremely familiar with this route. Likewise, I am equally knowledgeable after following her for the last few weeks. Every afternoon when she gets off work, she rushes home, changes clothes, and grabs her bike. Her path always leads from her apartment complex, down the street where she makes a right onto University and then heads toward the Botanical Gardens. From that point, she pedals under the I-30 overpass and works her way down to the Fort Worth Zoo. There, she does a turn-around and returns on the east side of the street paralleling Trinity Park and then back to her apartment. The route places her safely on a biking trail, except for one major crossing at I-30. It is at that intersection where I will make my move.
Conveniently, my route home requires a right turn at the light and then entrance via the on ramp to the interstate. Hannah Williams, my lovely target, will time her approach such that she doesn’t have to stop for the light to change. She pays careful attention beforehand and either pedals harder or coasts for a distance. She does it every single time, fitting precisely into my perfect-perfect plan.
Pacing myself beside her, me in the right lane of traffic and her next to me in the bike lane, I slow my speed to match hers. Uncharacteristically, she is pedaling slower than she normally does, creating a large gap between me and the traffic light. Anxiousness pumps my adrenaline, fearing someone will be encouraged to pass me. I fight the urge to roll my window down and tell her to get the lead out. If a car pulls in front of me, my opportunity will be lost. I must be first at the light.
Of all the damn times, today she dawdles to the point the light has turned red. Son of a bitch, I can’t believe it.
Let’s discuss my language for a moment. When I’m around my kids, my receptionist, a client and even family members, I keep my mouth general admission ... mostly. Well, I try. But if I’m talking to myself or thinking to myself, there might be an occasional shit, damn and hell, sprinkled with a few f-bombs here and there. It’s mostly when I’m angry. Like right fucking now. So, since you’re in my thoughts, let’s get one thing straight, I’m a dirty, filthy rotten scoundrel with a foul mouth. You are not likely to grow affection toward me, not even one little bit. But I don’t give a damn. From here forward, I will truly try to limit my mouth for your benefit. But if you’re offended and still at the “look inside” part, you can opt out and find yourself a nice copy of Heidi. Now get off my back and let me concentrate on the task at hand.
If you’re st
ill with me, I’ll explain this intersection more clearly. There are two lanes heading north and south. The inside lane of traffic must go straight. I am in the outside lane, giving me the option of either traveling straight or veering right onto the I-30 entrance ramp. I will be turning right. Hannah will be going straight. She will check over her shoulder to make sure no one is turning in front of her even though bikers and pedestrians have the right-of-way. I will hesitate a lingering second to make her think I am allowing her to cross first.
It is at this point, she will enter the intersection and then I will proceed to hit her, claiming I didn’t see her because any glance in that direction is blinded by the evening sun.
At this time of the evening, the sun is at the horrific level where your visor doesn’t help one bit and you can’t see a damn thing. At any rate, my bump will be very slight, only just enough for me to insist on taking her to the care center. But really, there won’t be any need to make it a big deal. Don’t worry. Hannah isn’t going to die ... not yet.
Now let’s talk briefly about why I’m running her over. Hannah’s unknowing role in this operation is providing me with the keys to the bank entrance, the security code, and the password to the banking system. She is the branch manager, making her one of the few people with access to the confidential financial records that I need. Unfortunately, in my limited time frame, this job must be completed before her friend returns from the cruise. With only a small window to get in, get what I want, get out and get rid of Hannah, I simply don’t have the time for a long and involved romance necessary to win over her trust. My casually bumping into her means that I am literally going to bump into her, and hopefully speed up getting into Hannah’s life.
To my left, cars are zipping by. Hannah lollygags along, making the gap grow larger. There is a red Jaguar right on my ass, urging me to get a move on. A white Toyota Camry behind him is growing equally impatient. I give my accelerator a little push, rushing a distance forward to imply that I’m getting my shit together. Then I slow, allowing Hannah to catch up.
Behind the white Camry, a gray Silverado honks his horn, making it clear that he is losing patience. When I ignore the incessant noise, he jerks his wheel and darts into the left lane, presses on the gas and veers around the Camry and the Jag and then whips his car in front of me, shooting me the bird as he does so. In the process, he almost clips the front of my fender, obviously with the intent to show me that I’ve irritated the hell out of him.
I can’t believe it. I have let someone in front of me. My steering wheel becomes a punching bag and I let out a string of cussing that I will spare you from. And just as I predicted, the light turns red. By the time the light turns green, chances are Hannah will have already crossed before I can get to her. That string of cuss words ramps up.
Today is Friday. I haven’t followed Hannah on weekends to see if she keeps to the same routine. If I am forced to wait until Monday, my four-day window of opportunity will have dwindled and likly will become impossible, especially considering she has a marathon this Sunday. It concerns me that she might not keep up her routine following the event.
Just when I have lost all faith, by some miracle the light turns green and the gray truck plows forward, heading south. But what I realize is that Hannah has timed her approach. The gray Silverado has long gone, and she is using the gap I have created to propel herself forward into the crosswalk.
“No! No! No!” I mutter under my breath.
My own stupid delay has given her clearance to bike through the intersection. I won’t have it. In my anger, and completely without thinking, I floor the gas and speed like a bullet to the intersection. When I make my right turn, she has just entered the intersection. And then BOOM!
I hit her with so much force that she is propelled through the air and onto the grassy embankment on the road’s edge.
OH, HOLY CRAP!!!
Jesus Christ, I may have killed her. My perfect-perfect plan has just gone by the wayside. And worse, my inadvertent bump may have just landed me in prison for vehicular homicide.
CHAPTER THREE
Douglas
Hannah lands hard on the ground beside the heap that is left of her bike. I jump the curb in my SUV and pull to an abrupt stop. Fighting off my seat belt, I throw open my door and haul ass over to where her lifeless body lies.
“Oh my God, Miss. Are you alright?”
Please be alright. Please be alright. I am a mess by the time I reach her. Dropping to my knees beside her, I see a cut to her face and blood is oozing down the right side of her cheek.
“I’m so sorry,” I cry out. “The sun … I didn’t see you.”
She is flat on her back and her beautiful golden blonde hair is splayed out in the green grass, giving her a halo effect around the edges of her white helmet. Having only watched her from a distance, my breath is taken away when I realize she is even more gorgeous than I anticipated. I cannot peel my eyes off her.
“Oh God, I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I mumble. “Han … Miss, can you hear me?”
She flutters her eyes open and then a full-on grimace replaces the peacefulness of her face. “Ouch. It hurts. I’m hurt. Please help me.”
“Absolutely,” I assure her. “Let me take you to the care center. It’s only a few blocks away.”
It is at this moment when I realize that the red Jag has turned the corner behind me and pulled to the grassy embankment behind Hannah. Some dude has jumped out and is now rapidly approaching me.
“Care center,” Mr. Jag says overhearing me. “This girl needs a hospital.”
Before I can protest, he is on the phone to emergency.
“No, no. I’ve got this handled,” I insist. “I’ll take her.” Sliding my arms under her slim body, I begin lifting her so that I can place her in my car.
“Don’t move her!” he bellows like a drill sergeant, physically shoving me aside. “She may have internal damage, and it looks like her leg may be broken. Get out of my way so I can have a look at her.”
“You?” I question, wanting this guy to just leave. “I can handle this.”
“I’m a doctor,” he informs, giving me a haughty look. “Now get out of my way.”
What are the odds? I mean seriously. My minor bump has not only landed Hannah in the hospital, but a doctor has arrived on the scene.
The lady in the Camry has also pulled over and is barreling out of car. “I saw the whole thing,” she yells. “That man ran her over.” The mid-fifties woman with permed hair points a long bony finger at me. “He ran her over. He did it on purpose. I watched him going slow beside her on the bike and then he drove like a maniac just to hit her.”
“That’s the way I saw it too,” Dr. Jag agrees, nodding up at the nosy bitch who still has her finger aimed at me. “You’re right, he couldn’t take his eyes off her as she pedaled alongside him.”
“I’m calling the cops,” she informs me, giving me a vicious glare with her beady brown eyes.
“That’s not necessary,” I protest. “I didn’t see her because of the sun. It was an accident.” My attention flips back to Dr. Jag where he remains kneeling beside my Hannah.
“What’s your name, honey?” he asks.
It ramps up my blood pressure for him to be calling her “honey.”
“Hannah,” she mutters with effort, clearly in a great deal of pain. “Hannah Williams,” she adds through clenched teeth.
“Don’t worry, Hannah. I’ll get you to the hospital,” Dr. Jag reports, then bores his narrowed eyes through me.
“I didn’t see her,” I insist, taking in his scrutinizing look. “When I looked up and saw a huge gap in front of me, I floored it to make the light. I would’ve never hit her. The sun must’ve blinded me from seeing her.” I make a big, huge deal out of pointing to the glaring sun. “Look, just look. Surely you can see how blinded I was.”
“Dude, this girl was right beside you all the way down the street. I agree with her,” he looks over at Ms. Camry. “You ha
d your eyes glued to her ass. You were even honked at to move it along.” He glances between me, the folded-in bike and poor Hannah. “Do you know her?” he asks suspiciously.
“No. I absolutely don’t. I’ve never met her before in my life,” I say with too much denial.
In the back of my mind, I am thinking about that friend of hers whom I have met on more than one occasion. It is not to my advantage for anyone to find out.
“You stay over there,” he orders, pointing to an area up by a black aluminum fence, backing the south side of the Botanical Gardens. “The cops are going to want to question you.”
“It was accident!” I bark. “I didn’t see her because of the sun.”
Hannah has spent this entire time reaching for her leg and crying. It is obvious that her leg is at a weird angle. I have hurt my Hannah. I want to shove this asshole out of my way and comfort her myself. I am odds as to what I should do.
“Miss Williams, I’m sorry,” I say, not taking Dr. Jag’s advice and instead hovering over the other side of Hannah. “I didn’t see you,” I say yet again as if enough protestation makes it so.
Her teary eyes look up at me. “You were way back there. How did you get into the intersection?” she asks in an agonized but accusing tone.
“He made a point of plowing into you,” Ms. Camry insists. “He ran you over. On purpose,” she pounds home.
“He sure did,” Dr. Jag concurs, bobbing his head in agreement with Ms. Camry.
Hannah doesn’t have a view of Ms. Camry, but she looks between me and Dr. Jag. “I’m a doctor,” he reiterates in a soothing tone. “I’ll make sure you get safely to the hospital.”
“I’ll make sure they arrest this maniac,” Ms. Camry adds, folding her arms over her chest and giving me a stern look, one filled with hot intensity.
Hannah’s green eyes blink back to me and her face turns to complete contempt. She looks back at Dr. Jag. “Please stay with me,” she begs of him.
The Perfect-Perfect Plan Page 1
