by Rod Kackley
A Wicked Plan: Book 1 From the St. Isidore Collection
St. Isidore Collection, Volume 1
Rod Kackley
Published by Rod Kackley, 2015.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
A WICKED PLAN: BOOK 1 FROM THE ST. ISIDORE COLLECTION
First edition. August 1, 2015.
Copyright © 2015 Rod Kackley.
ISBN: 978-1516370566
Written by Rod Kackley.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
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
WICKED REVENGE: | BOOK 2 FROM THE ST. ISIDORE COLLECTION | a preview
Sign up for Rod Kackley's Mailing List
Further Reading: Wicked Revenge: Book 2 From the St. Isidore Collection
Also By Rod Kackley
About the Author
Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul.
—-Vladimir Nabokov
CHAPTER ONE
Another girl might be crying. Bree was showering. She’d been able to put off Steven this time, the motherfucker who was pretending to be her father.
Someday I am going to cut if off and feed it to him, Bree thought to herself as she turned the water as hot as possible, and soaped every inch of her tight, young skin where his fat, old fingers had gone, outside and inside.
It had been bad, but not nearly as bad as it could have been. The first time, two years ago, had been terrible. It had easily been the worst night of her very young life.
But Bree had survived. And this night she had been able to put him off, to keep him from ramming it inside her. Whenever she was able to keep his fat cock out of her pussy, it counted as a win.
“This won’t go on much longer,” she’d promised herself and Beth, her best friend, just the day before.
“We’ll get rid of that asshole and we’ll be together. I promise.”
“Your mother, too?”
“Especially Debbie, that useless bitch.”
Bree really wasn’t any closer to keeping that promise, that night. But she was a few thousand dollars richer, she’d had fun playing with another old fucker, and Steven hadn’t gotten as far as he had hoped.
Not a bad night, Bree thought.
It had started off exactly as she planned.
“Come on baby, you got what you wanted. Now I want what I want,” the middle-age comb-over mumbled as his caffeine- and nicotine-stained teeth nibbled Bree’s neck, of course a little too hard to be erotic or sensual, even if he hadn’t been totally gross.
Alan was his name, or at least that was the name he gave the motel clerk, as he winked, paid in cash and handed over his drivers’ license.
Oh, wow, a room at the Motel St.Isidore, rates by the half-hour. Not wasting any money on me, are you? Bree laughed to herself. If only mama knew, she almost said out loud, thinking about how tasteless Alan’s wife’s home cooking must be.
Bree excelled at the things an underage girl had to do to score a bottle of booze or a six-pack of beer.
A few more years and she’d be twenty-one, “Old enough to smoke, drink and score in St. Isidore,” the teenagers chanted on the banks of the Red Run River as they chugged the booze, beer and wine that Bree was able to wheedle out of the Baby Boomers who trolled for teenage talent after midnight on DeVos Avenue.
It really was easier to get dope, any kind of dope in St. Isidore than it was to get a bottle of beer. While most kids figured “with dope there’s hope, but with booze you lose,” Bree enjoyed the games she played with her middle-aged lovers and the payoff was sometimes much better than just a bottle of beer.
“In a minute baby, give me a minute,” Bree said. “I gotta put the protection in. Let me go! I gotta go into the bathroom.”
“Fuck. You do it out here. I gotta drain a vein to make the bladder gladder,” Alan said as he hopped up off the bed.
Bree bounced in the air as the force of the 215-pounder leaving the queen-sized bed catapulted her slender frame a couple of inches off the mattress.
“No rush, baby. Make sure you give me a few minutes,” Bree said to the hairy-backed, overweight blob of St. Isidore manhood that wobbled into the john.
She’d been trying to figure out how to separate herself from the blob ever since the moron and thrown his wallet on the motel room desk as they entered the room.
What was inside the imitation leather is what Bree had really been after all night long.
Couple of minutes later behind the wheel of Alan’s Buick Regal, with the vodka he’d bought her, sliding the key into the ignition, Bree had her protection — Alan’s wallet, holding his credit cards and the all important driver’s license.
“David! That’s your real name, isn’t it Alan,” Bree shouted through the driver’s side window as her midnight lover, clad in nothing but his baggy white briefs, slammed against the door of his — correction Bree’s — Buick.
Bree held the plastic ID that included everything but his wife’s name between her two fingers as she turned the key and dropped the Buick into reverse.
“Hey David! I know who you are. You don’t have a clue who I am,” Bree said, as the Buick’s tires spun on the gravel in the Motel St. Isidore parking lot, showering David’s bare skin with tiny pebbles and sand.
“I’ll say hello to wifey for you.”
Oh look at this, she thought as she turned right and drove away in Alan’s Buick that should be worth at least five-grand on the St. Isidore black market.
Dumb fuck put the motel room key card in his wallet.
That thought had occurred to David, too. He realized his mistake when he tried to cover his underwear-clad front and pulled open the locked glass door to get back into the motel.
“Fuck!”
CHAPTER TWO
Bree was still laughing about it at home in the shower, still a little buzzed from the vodka, when she heard the bathroom door open and saw the silhouette of a bulking bruiser that could only be Steven through the plastic shower curtain.
She didn’t bother to cover herself. Steven had seen too much, too often. He had touched her, groped her, tongued her and more. Too much more.
“He’ll be fucking my dead body if that ever happens, again,” Bree promised her best friend a few days before. “But before that happens he’ll be minus one cock.”
“You carry a knife?” said one of the kids at the high school lunch table, interrupting Bree’s conversation with Beth.
“Don’t need to,” said Bree. “Doesn’t matter what you bite off as long as you can spit it out.”
Steven didn’t hesitate to drop his briefs and climb into the shower with Bree for the same reason she didn’t bother to cover herself.
Been there, they both thought, and done that. Bree didn’t even shudder. Why give him the satisfaction of thinking she was scared? Bree knew if she played along just long enough and built up his ego, promising next time would be THE time, he would leave. She hoped.
Bree never pulled back from Steven. Just like with the others, Bree knew how to get what she wanted from Steven.
With the others it was booze and dope. With Steven, it was survival.
But this time Bree surprised Steven by stepping forward into his naked hug, caressing the hair on the back of his neck and returning his kiss, tongue for tongue.
“You know I love you,” Bree said when she took her tongue back and fought down the bile that was surging up her throat.
“Why can’t we just leave? Why can’t we run away to Mexico, like you promised?”
She was back on the tips of her toes, hands around Steven’s neck and nibbling his lower lip.
“I want you now,” said Steven. “I need you now.”
Bree knew she could only tell a man “no” so many times before he would either get discouraged and slink away or get pissed, start hitting and taking what he wanted.
That’s why Bree gave Steven what he wanted when there was no other choice. But some day, and that day was coming, she would be able to say “No,” for the last time.
Steven wasn’t some middle-aged loser who could find himself locked outside a motel on DeVos Avenue. He was a lot of things, but Steven was not a loser.
Still, Bree knew his dance of a predator and his prey could only go on so long. The music had to stop sometime, and Bree knew this song was coming to its coda.
“My period starts soon. Can we give it just a few days, please? It will be so much better for you.”
His big hands squeezed her bare shoulders.
“One week,” Steven said. “We’ll get out of the house. We will go someplace where there is nothing to worry about. No one will hear you scream.”
The thought that no one could hear her scream would make Bree shudder late that night. She had screamed the first time. Her mother must have heard. But she did nothing.
More than ever, Bree knew she was on her own. She had to stop Steven forever.
The motherfucker stepped out of the shower, dried himself off and went back to bed.
When Bree heard the bathroom door close, she shuddered so hard she nearly fell down. When her knees stopped wobbling, Bree turned the hot water on full force. She scrubbed every spot on her body Steven had touched.
But she couldn’t get his scent out of her nose.
Later, even with the incense burning in her bedroom, Bree could still smell him.
In bed, she shuddered and shivered and pulled the quilt up over her face.
But still Bree felt better than she might have because she had not let herself go. She had not surrendered. Bree knew as scary as it had been, she had never lost control.
However, at the same time, something had snapped. She was like a camel the instant after a straw hit his back. Something had broken inside Bree. She had no doubt what had to be done, and even better, Bree didn’t doubt that it would happen. She knew she would never surrender.
She smiled. Bree knew she had won again, so she just laid back and listened to the night.
Bree had grown up with the sound of the traffic rumbling on the interstate, four city blocks south of her home. To her it was as gentle as the white noise of a flowing river or a babbling brook. It always helped her sleep, especially those nights when her mother didn’t make it home.
It was the soundtrack of St. Isidore, the town that had become her mother, Debbie’s, sanctuary.
Swingin’ Izzy was so predictable.
At that time of night, Bree knew Bradford Glasscock would be taking a last delivery at his family’s funeral home. The hot dogs would be turning and spitting at the St. Isidore Stop ’N Go. The kids driving up and down DeVos Avenue would be stopping to do their nightly mating dances. The regulars at the Lamplighter would be getting ready for a couple hours of power drinking before last call.
Some nights Bree would wait in the bar’s parking lot for those who had lost what common sense and decency they had left.
It was amazing what a teenage girl could get with just a little flash.
Bree was almost asleep when she heard the 11:45 train blowing its horn as the locomotive approached Eastern Avenue, another sound that reassured her everything was going to be okay. No matter what happened, that train would go east at night and west in the morning. Nothing would stop it.
To Bree, the sound of that train was more than another note in the symphony of a St. Isidore night. It was her dream — to hop that train and get out of town as quickly as she could.
CHAPTER THREE
His dick was almost inside me, Bree texted.
OMG! He nearly fucked you, Beth texted back.
Disgusted, Bree texted. So gross.
He wants you so bad.
I know.
What are you gonna do?
Stop him.
How?
I will
U have plan?
Yes perfect plan.
One we talked about
Yeah.
U nuts?
It worked for the girls in Ohio and that girl in California.
OMG
Serious. They got kidnapped
And raped
And survived.
OMG
Now they are stars!
Fuck. what about your step dad and your mom
Dead
Fuck
Fuck is right. That’s what that dickhead wants. I could feel it bouncing against my belly.
OMG!
Gonna get rid of him.
What?
Get rid of him, like he wont wanna fuck me cuz he wont exist. Get rid of him.
Kill?
Don’t make me make you an accessory after fact.
Oh fuck
yeah, oh fuck.
What about your mom?
Fucking in bed the whole time listening, she don’t care.
your mom! Love her?
Not like you
U luv me
yeah baby only u
We are gonna be stars?
yeah baby...we are gonna be stars
Bree had told Beth almost everything about her life. Even about Steven and how he raped her at least once a week. She told Beth about how she pretended to like it. How she pretended to love Steven and how she would “cut if off and feed it to him one day.”
Bree’s life might have seemed like an open book to Beth, but Bree was the one who turned the pages. She never surrendered that control.
Control. That’s why Bree never told Beth she loved her either in a text or in conversation, even when they were wrapped in each others’ arms.
Do I love Beth? Bree wasn’t sure. But she did know there are times when you have to tell the other person in your life what that person wants to hear whether it’s true or not. If they want to believe it enough, they will believe it.
And Bree wanted Beth to believe.
She didn’t have a total A-to-B-to-C plan in her head yet. But Bree knew that Steven had to die. Forget going to the cops in this town, she told herself for the millionth time. Chief Lumpy and the donut squad? You must be fucking kidding me.
And forget about her mother, Bree had told Beth more than once.
“She would never stand up for me against Steven,” Bree said. “Never has, never will.”
Steven had to die. Her mother too. Bree was convinced that was the only way to wake up from the nightmare that had consumed her life.
Then Bree and Beth could run away together and leave her parents behind, hopefully in their final resting place.
But how to make it happen and get away with it. That was the question she had yet to answer.
�
�But Bree is working on it,” Beth said to herself as she drifted off to sleep in the house across the street. “And if Bree is working on it, it is going to happen. I will bet her mother and stepfather are never going to know what hit them.”
Bree’s mother, had actually been reflecting on her good fortune while she waited for Steven to get done doing his business in the bathroom.
Debbie’s life had finally come together. Most days were good. Not every day, but who could say every day was perfect, she thought to herself. If you didn’t have bad days, how could you appreciate the good?
She rolled over to put her arm around the mountain of a man that was her husband, Steven. He wasn’t perfect either, but then again, how could you appreciate the good times if it wasn’t for the bad, Debbie had decided long ago.
Taking the good with the bad, he was her rock.
A few minutes after Debbie put her arm around Steven and nuzzled up against his furry back she could feel him starting to rustle.
Damn, I woke him up again, Debbie thought, as she held on to her man tighter or at least as tight as a petite woman could grip a man whose body she had never been able to get her arms around.
It didn’t work this night any better than it had that night last week when he left her alone.
Steven got up.
Debbie pulled her covers over her head, lay awake, held her breath and listened as Steven walked down the hall, and into the bathroom.
Debbie breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God, he hadn’t gone into Bree’s room again.
CHAPTER FOUR
Debbie had done the best she could. She was only twenty-nine, but fourteen years as a single mother had taken a toll. There wasn’t a day of it that had been easy. When Steven came into her life, Debbie thought it would make her happy. That’s all she ever wanted.
It didn’t.
Steven arrived on the scene early enough that Debbie hoped Brianna would think he was her father. Of course he wasn’t. Of course he never bonded with her. Of course Brianna was sharp enough to see through the deception.
