Surviving Faith (The JackholeS, #2)
Page 37
In the shower, I sagged against the marble wall as the water hit my stiff shoulders. It took all my energy to wash up and wrap my fluffy pink robe around me.
After brushing my long brown hair and putting it up in a bun on my head I fell head first into the pillows on my bed. My blue eyes stung when I removed my contacts. A clear indication they were overworked. I let out a satisfied sigh delighted I could close my tired eyes and not have to open them until tomorrow afternoon.
The next two days were mine to sleep in and do nothing but get reacquainted with my Kindle.
The exhibit Art hosted this weekend was a roaring success. The artist had a red sold ticket over every piece within two hours. After cleaning up all day and unwrapping our newest shipment, I was now the proud owner of this Monday and Tuesday and I planned to get full use out of them.
Chapter two
As my body liquefied into dreamland my ears were assaulted by someone murmuring downstairs. My eyelids dragged over my sand covered eyeballs as I concentrated on the voice, which sounded like it was coming from my living room. My ears strained to catch what was being said, but I couldn't grasp any of the words.
My thoughts retraced my steps from my encounter with Mrs. Crabington all the way until I plopped into my bed. I didn't remember turning the TV on. Maybe the cat accidentally stepped on the remote. That would have been a very plausible explanation, if I owned a cat.
My heart hammered in my chest as I held my breath trying to hear more. There were no footsteps or shuffling around, just the faint noise of somebody mumbling. When my chest felt like it was going to explode from lack of oxygen I sucked in a sharp breath, wincing from the sound.
My purse was downstairs happily housing my cell phone which I hadn't planned on using the next two days except to order pizza and Chinese food. Silently cursing myself I grabbed the sterling silver candle stick off of the mantle above the fireplace in my room.
I tiptoed down the stairs clutching the candlestick in my sweaty palms. My mind went over every batting lesson my dad taught me. Damn me for not paying more attention. If I was found bludgeoned on the bottom of my stairs I was going back in time, and kicking my nine year old ass. I didn't keep my cream tiled floor in pristine condition just to have the grout stained with my blood.
In the living room the light coming from the pre-programmed battery operated candles above the fireplace gave off a faint glow. I crouched down against the banister and held my breath as I listened, trying to find out where my intruder was.
My genius plan was to run to the front door, grab my purse, and book it outside so I could call the police.
The murmuring sounded as if it was coming from somewhere near my couch. My eyes raked across my living room. The fake flickering candles cast shadows around the room but none of them seemed to be the form of a troublemaking human destine for prison.
With a deep breath I dashed toward the door in a full sprint. The door was only a couple feet away. I was going to make it. Or at least I would have if my foot hadn't caught on the edge of that stupid portrait I forgot I left leaning against the couch.
My body flew to the floor, skidding the last few feet I had to my safety on my stomach. I couldn't get my hands out in front of me in time, allowing my head to stop my momentum.
Deep masculine laughter boomed through out my house echoing off the walls and slamming into my stomach. Goosebumps sprouted all over my body as I quickly flipped over to scan my living room again.
Nothing. I couldn't see anyone. The programmed candles decided to extinguish at that moment blanketing my house in darkness.
My hand slid up the wall desperately reaching for the door handle. The disembodied laughter seemed to be moving closer to me. Just as I wrapped my hand around the doorknob a blast of cold wind coasted over my face.
"For such a graceful looking woman, she sure is clumsy."
"Who's there?" I cried out as I pulled up on the handle so I was standing ready to launch out of my house.
"You can hear me?" A husky male voice asked as another blast of cold brushed my cheek.
"Of course I can hear you. I'm going to call the police. Stay away from me." I reached out and hit the light switch next to my door illumining the room. Surprisingly, I was able to keep a hold of the candle stick during my fall. I cocked my hand back ready to bludgeon the hell out of someone.
Acknowledgements
Once again, to acknowledge everyone who has helped me would be a book in itself. I want to thank everyone who waited patiently for the JackholeS to return.
Thank you to....
My Mom. You are my first cheerleader and my soul-mate. I was meant to live this life with you beside me.
Kristen Hope Mazzola. Thank you. Thank you, for the beautiful cover. Without you this story wouldn't have been published. I hope the story does the cover justice. Also thank you for kicking me in the butt when I needed to put on my big girl panties.
K.K. Allen. Thank you for taking the time to get Surviving Faith ready for publishing. You are seriously the saviour of this book.
Ella Emerson. You are still the bestest friend I could ask for.
Lilo Abernathy. I've come to realize you are my mentor in this crazy indie world.
Every one of my beta readers. Dayna, Maari, Melony, Alondra and everyone else I'm forgetting. I love you all. Sorry it took so long
And all of my new author friends. Finding the indie author community was like finding the greatest blanket fort, and I'm so grateful I'm home.
And to my Family. Thank you for understanding my need to hide in the writers cave, and supporting me when I needed it. You four boys are my rockstars.
And last but not least. Everyone who took the time to read the second story of Faith and Kill. Thank you for your time, I hope you enjoyed it.
About the author
Joy Eileen is a born bibliophile who becomes deeply engaged with her characters, and has devoured more books than she would like to admit. She becomes obsessed with happily-ever-afters, and will read any genre that fulfills that requirement. Evading the library is something she has been known to do, because after befriending the characters returning them would be a heartbreaking event. Books are held hostage on her bookshelf, and any author that makes her ugly cry becomes her sworn enemy. Nicholas Sparks is one of the many on the list of villains.
As a massage therapist, most of Joy's stories come to her while working. With the sound of classical music, and snoring from a half covered hostage, characters are created. The victim (massage patient) has no idea that while their body is being manipulated, Joy has traveled into distant lands creating landscapes and inhabitants as she goes. Her patients should be wary as sometimes they are pulled into her stories and turned into characters. Hero or Foe? Well, that depends on how they tip.
If you or anyone you know is in a domestic violence situation please seek help.
The National Domestic Violence Hotline.
1-800-799-7233 | 1-800-787-3224 (TTY)