Meeting Midnight: Ankarrah Chronicles Book One

by J. D. Dexter

  Meeting Midnight

  Ankarrah Chronicles Book One

  J.D. Dexter

  Copyright © 2018. Jackie Stewart

  All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, at “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Chapter One

  “Let’s go, Josh. You should’ve done your primping at home,” I drawl at my best friend from outside the open car window. It’s a balmy Friday night and spring weather in Kansas changes its mind as often as girls change their clothes to follow the next fashion trend. I wrap one hand around my long brown hair, the other holding the skirt of my maxi dress, trying to keep both from flying everywhere.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Not all of us can go through life without having to do anything to look beautiful,” he grouses at me as he rises. His six foot four frame towering over the hood of his low-slung Camaro—his self-proclaimed pride and joy. Softly closing the door to his car, he meets me at the front of the car.

  “Aww, thanks, Josh. I think you’re beautiful too. Even if you are wearing more hair gel than I am.” I stand on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

  “Men are not beautiful. Men are handsome,” he corrects me. Holding my arm, he leads me around to the back of the dilapidated bar.

  “And we’re going to this standing health code violation, why? Where did you even hear about the esteemed Roscoe’s?” I feel like my eyes are going to pop out of my head from straining to see where I’m going in the fading sunlight. My wedge heels are not the off-road variety. The old, dilapidated building appears as if a strong Kansas wind could knock it into the next county.

  “You’ll see.” Josh steers me around some potholes that could swallow my Mini Cooper.

  “Right. That’s what you said at the place last time. We ended up sprinting to Coop just to escape the man with the shotgun.” I remember feeling like one of the Duke brothers from my dad’s favorite TV show.

  “You’ve really got to quit naming your cars, Fin. It’s a little creepy.”

  “Men name their cars all the time. Why can’t I?”

  “Um, because you’re not a man?”

  “You really want to get into that conversation again?”

  “Nope, you’re right. Not tonight,” He mutters under his breath, hunching his shoulders.

  I chuckle quietly as I remember the last time we had a discussion about the double standards Josh holds. He was soundly trounced in logic; even his dad sided with me. And Mr. H is about as old-school patronizing as they come. Neither of them are misogynists, they just don’t think women should do things that men do. Women are supposed to be classy, tactful, and willing to let men take care of them.

  I put a stop to those notions when I was ten and got Josh out of a fight by beating up his bully. He just needs to be reminded of that every once in a while. I’m one of the few women in the Hastings men’s lives who are afforded a more equal footing in their lives. Josh’s mother, two sisters, and grandmother being the other select few. Even I wouldn’t tangle with Mrs. H; that woman is frightening.

  We finally make our way through the booby-trapped parking lot and make it to the entrance. The rancid wafts of decaying trash drift on the wind. Josh reaches out to rap his knuckles against the aging grayed wood just as it opens. His reflexes are the only thing that keep him from knocking on a bottle-blond’s head, right between her eyes.

  “Watch it, jerk!” She hisses at him. Her clothes look tight enough that I’m worried about her circulation. Her red lipstick a little smeared around the open gash of her mouth, making it seem like she’s bleeding.

  She stumbles out of the doorway, crashing between our bodies. I’m lucky she’s so short, and Josh has a good grip on my arm, otherwise Ms. Trashy and I would’ve both ended up sprawled on the dirty stoop. Looking stunned and a little confused, she glares up at us through her damaged hair.

  “How’d a fat girl like you land a prime ten like him?” She snarls at me while jerking her head in Josh’s direction. She’s definitely right about Josh being a prime ten. The boy has more muscles than Thor, and a body that makes lesser gods weep.

  I laugh down at her. “Honey, some men like filet mignon instead of flank steak.” Running my hand over my padded hip, I say, “Real men appreciate a fine cut of meat.”

  “Come on, baby. Let’s leave the flank steak here to ponder her life choices,” Josh mocks as we continue our way into the weakly lighted bar. His hand resting low on my hip, squeezing the flesh through the fabric of my sundress. While I’m not stick thin, I’m certainly not fat. I have more curves than a mountain switchback road – at least according to my Nonna. She told me that one day I would appreciate my height and curves.

  She was right.

  “Assholes!” The shriek sounds just as the door slams. Enclosed in the dank, stinky room, I pause for a moment to let me eyes adjust. The stale smell of old cigarettes permeates the room even though indoor smoking has been banned for a while now.

  “And you brought us here, why, again?” I ask Josh out of the side of my mouth.

  “You’ll see,” he answers, absolutely unfazed by the interaction outside or inside.

  I turn to look at him, almost eye to eye in my heels, and see his eyes flitting back and forth, looking for someone. Seeing his eyes track, stop, and go back, I turn, looking to see who has caught his attention.

  “Brian?” I blurt out, caught completely off guard to see one of Josh’s favorite cousins, and another of my best friends, striding across the wooden floor towards us, his boot heels sounding like muffled shotgun blasts. His dark hair absorbing the light, a slash of a smile on his chiseled face. He moved to an outlying neighborhood, meaning we didn’t get to see him as often as we would like.

  My shriek fills the air as I’m swung up into the air. Brian’s hands latch together under my butt. Throwing my head back, extending my arms with my hands wrapped around his thick neck, I let loose a happy squeal, wrapping my dangling legs around his lean waist. I lean forward and smack my lips to his quickly, our typical greeting.

  “Easy there, Fin. You might want to tone back the enthusiasm a bit. The clientele here are a little too excited by your reaction.” Josh cautions me from behind.

  Brian’s arms move from beneath my butt, catching the hem of my dress, as he goes to set me on my feet. I can feel Josh’s hands frantically grabbing at the fabric of my dress. A catcall sounds from the far side of the room. I can feel Brian’s chest muscles tense under my fingers at the sound as my feet make contact w
ith the floor again.

  “Easy, big guy. No worries,” I reassure the giant man in front of me. If Josh makes me feel petite, Brian makes me feel like a tween. He’s a least six inches taller than me now, even though I’m wearing heels. His chest resembles a good whiskey barrel that whittles down to a narrow waist. His legs are so powerful and muscular, he struggles to find jeans that aren’t tailored. We used to give each other crap about being the tallest guy and girl in school.

  Looking into Brian’s eyes, the color a deeper blue than Josh’s, I see he’s pulling back from pummeling the stupid idiot on the other side of the bar. His face losing the harsh edges. As I smile at him, I can see an answering smirk begin to pull at his mouth.

  “How’s Brent?” I ask about his younger brother, the last of our Four Musketeers.

  “Ask him yourself, nugget.” Wrapping his massive arm around my shoulders, I get tugged towards the far side of the dreary space. There’s Brent, looking ill at ease, in his typical three-piece suit. His dapper clothes definitely making stand out in this dive.

  He and Brian are a study in opposites. Brian is big, burly, and a teddy bear—unless you mess with me or his family. Brent is slight, lean, and fiery—until you get to know him.

  “Brent!” I launch myself at him as he rises from the booth. We’re the same height with me in heels, making him a rock solid six foot one. We stumble as he tries to find his footing, tripping back a couple of steps under my onslaught.

  “Finley!” He mimics my cry before laying his mouth gently to my smiling lips in a quick kiss of greeting.

  I’m not touchy-feely with anyone other than my three best friends and my parents. I’ve never felt comfortable enough with others to allow them into my personal space, but I cherish the closeness I have with these stable men. I’ll be a little sad, but mostly happy, when they meet their future wives.

  Pulling back, I put both of my hands on his cheeks. Looking in his golden brown eyes, I see some stress and trouble.

  “What’s up, buttercup?” I can feel my brow furrowing. No one gets to hurt my boys, and this looks more intense than something from work.

  “We’ll get there, I promise,” he answers just as quietly. Releasing me, he steps over to give Josh a hug and a manly back pat.

  We all settle into the booth that Brent had been sitting at before he stood up. Brian and Brent share one side of the booth while Josh and I sit opposite them.

  Brian and Brent have already ordered a couple of beers, the condensation sliding slowly down the brown glass. The yeasty smell of beer coats the back of my throat, making me swallow down a gag. I’ve never liked the stuff.

  The waitress comes over, her look frankly appraising the booth full of delicious men I’m surrounded by. I smile and give her a wink, which she returns.

  “What can I getcha?” She drawls, jutting her right hip out, her weight resting on the other leg. I bet her hips are killing her by the end of the night. Mentally, I start analyzing her stance and the issues she probably deals with on a daily basis: hips, knees, feet, upper back, and top of her shoulders. Being a massage therapist who specializes in muscular dysfunction, analyzing people is an occupational hazard.

  My ability to see the colors inside and around others is something I’ve hidden for my entire life. I have to actively work to not see the colors swirling around others. I think it’s just rude to know that kind of information without someone telling me about it explicitly.

  If I want to, I can see the colors of pain swirling around her body in pulses and waves. It’s something I’ve always been able to do, and one of the things that makes me so great at fixing muscular dysfunction.

  I blink a couple of times, bringing the waitress back into focus, as Josh taps his thigh to mine. “I’ll just have a Coke, thanks,” I hurry to provide an answer, knowing that I’ve lost track of real life again. Sometimes I get caught up in watching people. I get so lost that I let life pass me by on occasion.

  I can feel Josh’s upper body moving up and down at my side, a clear indication he’s laughing at me. He laughs when I ‘blank out’ in public. He’s told me he thinks it’s because I find everyone and everything around me boring, so I just tune everything out. I haven’t corrected him in the twenty years we’ve been friends.

  Brian and Brent are snickering under their breath as well. They don’t know, or at least haven’t told me, what they think happens when I blank out, but they find it funny nonetheless.

  “Sorry,” I offer to the waitress. She just laughs too, nods her head, and goes to get our drinks.

  “Losing track still, Finley?” Brent wondered.

  “Yup.” I give him a wink.

  If they only knew. I’m weird and I know that, supernatural healing abilities notwithstanding. I own it and try to make it work for me. Most of the time I’m successful—well, at least I consider myself successful, anyways.

  All the men chuckle.

  “I’m glad to see not too much has changed since I moved to Andover.” Brian smiles.

  “Does that mean some things have changed since then?” I notice the same stress and trouble deeper in Brian’s eyes than I saw in Brent’s.

  “Everything is always changing, Finley-babe. You know that.”

  “Indubitably,” I cheekily answer. “But I want to know why both you and Brent are unhappy.” I’m unwilling to see loved ones in pain, especially if I can somehow help make them feel better.

  “Here you go.” The waitress puts the drinks down on the scarred table with definite clunks. She wipes her hands on the rag hanging from the apron that seems ubiquitous with people who serve in restaurants and bars.

  “Thanks. I appreciate you,” I tell her sincerely, looking into her eyes. The world needs more gratitude. She seems a little surprised, but gives me a big smile and turns to wait on her other customers.

  “What?” I ask the smiling men at my table. “There’s nothing wrong with being nice,” I say a bit testily, my cheeks heating just a touch under their scrutiny.

  “Not one thing wrong with it, Finley. We should all do it more.” Brent nods his head, before taking a sip from his half-full bottle.

  “Finley here charms her way into the hearts of men and women alike.” Brian lifts his beer bottle in a silent toast.

  “I don’t know about charm. I made Josh cry earlier this week.” I beam at Brian. “But thanks for calling me charming. I’ll take it.”

  “Now wait a second. I didn’t cry! I manfully shared my pain and anguish. Fin just snickered and told me to suck it up,” Josh pouts. “And she called me Whiny Wendy … again.”

  Brent almost spews his beer all over the table at Josh’s remark. Pretty sure some went up his nose with the way he’s pinching it and wincing.

  “Uh huh,” I nod at the table, giving Brian and Brent an exaggerated wink. “Right. ‘Manfully shared.’ He starts yelping,” I deepen my voice. “‘Crap on a cracker, Fin, that hurts!’ He almost used all of my Kleenex.”

  Brian and Brent’s laughter shoots out over the room. A momentary hush covers the low muffles that fill the rowdy bar at the burst of sound. Josh huffs a sigh, a slight smile on his mouth.

  “Well, crying or not, Josh here can take it, I bet,” Brent offers once his mouth is empty. Brent introduced Josh to Cross Fit, so he’s aware of the physicality that Josh possesses.

  “And don’t think I’ve forgotten about you two being unhappy. I want to know what’s going on.” I pin them both with a level stare. The lingering laughter at the table goes up in smoke like a flame doused by water.

  I tap my unpolished fingernail on the table top, going for a stern, yet compassionate look. Pretty sure it didn’t faze them in the least.

  “Charming and bossy,” Brent says with a sad smile.

  “You better believe it, so fess up, brother. I got nothing but time.” I move my fingers in a come ahead gesture.

  “Our dad thinks he’s in trouble,” Brian mutters, his shoulders coming up around his ears in defense.

&nb
sp; “What kind of trouble can Uncle Mark get into? He’s a doctor,” Josh says, looking perplexed.

  “True. Although he’s a PhD, instead of an MD; He’s a medical researcher. He a geneticist and works in adaptations—whatever that means. My eyes glaze over when he goes too in-depth.” He shakes his head, shrugs his shoulders slightly.

  “Okay. What kind of trouble does he think he’s in?” I ask quietly. Brian is a laid-back kind of guy, and the man sitting across from me is stressed, scared, and losing it.

  Brent touches Brian’s arm softly before cupping his beer once again. The brothers have always been close, and it shows now in the comfort they give and take between them.

  “He’s been looking at some new markers for cancer in genomes. Don’t ask me specifics because I couldn’t begin to start.” Brian shakes his head. “Anyways, something he’s found has brought a lot of scrutiny. He says he feels like he’s being followed. Things in his office are being moved, at least he thinks so. He thinks his phone is being bugged because he’s noticing some weird clicks and whatnots on his calls now.” Brian takes another drink, his eyes sad.

  “Do you believe him?” I ask.

  “Dad’s never been the paranoid type, but I can’t imagine someone wanting to follow him or bug his phone. That’s crazy.” He looks at me, his concern for his dad easy to see.

  “Maybe to you and to us, but if he thinks creepy things are happening, the least we can do is hear him out. You yourself said you don’t understand what he does at his work. This could be something about all of that, and none of us are smart enough to appreciate the risk.” I shrug my shoulders.

  “Besides, if, heaven forbid, something does happen, all of us are going to feel awful for not listening. It costs us nothing to listen, except some time. I can afford time,” I tell them softly.

  The two men nod their heads. Brian’s shoulders slump, reminding me of when he was a little boy and reprimanded by his dad. The look of utter dejection.