by Nesly Clerge
The Starks Trilogy
A Psychological Thriller
Two books, bundled, and discounted!
When The Serpent Bites (Book 1)
When The Dragon Roars (Book 2)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
NESLY CLERGE RECEIVED his bachelor’s degree in physiology and neurobiology at the University of Maryland, and later pursued a doctoral degree in the field of chiropractic medicine. Although his background is primarily science-based, he has finally embraced his lifelong passion for writing. Clerge’s debut novel, When the Serpent Bites, is due out in 2015, with the sequel to follow. His debut novel explores choices, consequences, and the complexities of human emotions, especially when we are placed in a less-than-desirable setting. When he is not writing, Clerge manages several multidisciplinary clinics. He enjoys reading, chess, traveling, exploring the outdoors, and spending time with his significant other and his sons. For more information regarding the book please visit Clergebooks.com
THANK YOU
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Praises for When The Serpent Bites
"From debut author Clerge comes a novel about one man's quest to survive prison and find answers within himself. The prison fear is vivid, the odds insurmountable and the conclusion anyone's guess, though it certainly won't come easily. An arresting prison tale about penance."
—Kirkus Reviews
"The characters have real depth—something I am big on—and the drama on the pages made me feel as though I was right there watching it. The book is fast paced and, in my opinion, downright amazing."
—Bobbie Grob, Readers' Favorite
"This character orientated drama benefits from a fully fleshed out protagonist, gritty writing, and psychological insight into a realistic psyche. The obvious sequel has a high bar to surpass... When the Serpent Bites is a fantastic read for legal buffs, crime lovers, and readers who love a great story."
—John Murray, Pacific Book Review
"Nesly Clerge spins a convoluted web of human dynamics and sinister situations in his debut novel. Clerge's careful attention to character development and the cast's interactions with Starks is a main ingredient that keeps his story flowing. Clerge's cliffhanging chapters continually tickle the curiosity of thriller aficionados to keep turning pages to see what the final outcome will be. Clerge also maintains plot fluidity by alternating character scenes, backstories, and a plethora of twisted and suspenseful events."
—San Francisco Book Review
WHEN THE SERPENT BITES
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
CHAPTER 86
CHAPTER 87
CHAPTER 88
CHAPTER 89
CHAPTER 90
CHAPTER 91
CHAPTER 92
CHAPTER 93
CHAPTER 94
CHAPTER 95
CHAPTER 96
CHAPTER 97
CHAPTER 98
CHAPTER 99
CHAPTER 100
CHAPTER 101
CHAPTER 102
CHAPTER 103
CHAPTER 104
CHAPTER 105
CHAPTER 106
CHAPTER 107
CHAPTER 108
CHAPTER 109
CHAPTER 110
CHAPTER 111
CHAPTER 112
CHAPTER 113
CHAPTER 114
COPYRIGHT
CHAPTER 1
FREDERICK STARKS’S NEED gnawed at him like a painful, roving itch. He decided that this time he’d scratch it so it would go away.
He eased himself out of bed.
“Can’t sleep, again?” Emma rolled onto her back and used her left leg to push the bedcovers down, revealing her nakedness. “Come back to bed. You know I sleep better when you spoon me.”
“In a while. And then I’ll do more than spoon you.”
“Can’t you just read until you nod off?”
“Fresh air clears my head.”
Emma yawned. “All these late night drives. Should I be worried?” She stretched and purred in her own way then went still.
He crept to her side, checked to make sure she was indeed asleep then pulled the covers to her shoulders. He knew men who considered him one lucky bastard to have such a remarkable woman in his life. Luck had nothing to do with it; he didn’t operate on luck, he operated on calculated risks and informed decisions. Nor did he feel guilty about any of his good fortune: He’d earned every bit of it. People tended to forget or never knew he’d had to do with less in his life and intended to never live like that again.
He dressed in the dark then went to his Bentley, waiting a few moments before turning the key in the ignition. Then, as he had so many nights for months, he drove off.
The moon was a pale sliver above him. Elm, cedar, willow, and holly trees, and anything else not under cover in the Boston suburb of Weston, were coated with frost that promised to be thicker by morning. The effect was one of an enchanted place, a serene place that sparkled in patches and swaths on the landscape. The stillness was broken only by the occasional nocturnal creature hunting prey. Scented smoke plumed from chimneys as fires below dwindled and died. Residents in this afflue
nt town eagerly, or anxiously, contemplated plans for the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday just two weeks away, while children dreamed of the holiday to follow. In so many ways, it was a perfect night in a perfect neighborhood.
Until Starks went where he didn’t belong.
Only a few houses still had lighted windows casting shimmering wide or narrow yellow strips on the ground. Starks drove by his home, the mini-mansion he’d taken such pride in, traveling slowly as he passed it; feeling his emotions ratchet up. Then he corrected himself—this is no longer my home. His wife, Kayla, and their three children still lived there, along with her latest boyfriend, Bret, and his two daughters.
Effects of escalated events over the past twelve months had taken a toll on him. Learning the full extent of his wife’s deception had been the trigger, and was why he made the decision to go where he knew he shouldn’t. His foot pressed down on the accelerator.
He and his wife, Kayla, had lived apart for most of that time, a reality still unfathomable to him. And even though he was now involved with Emma, his left arm went numb and his mouth turned dry when he saw Kayla and Bret nuzzling each other in a dark corner of one of the popular local bars earlier in the evening. They’d passed him on the road, unaware he’d seen them. He followed them, even though he knew it was the wrong thing to do; that it was best if he just got on with his life. Everyone made a point of saying this to him whenever he complained, which was often. But he couldn’t let go of the long-held belief that Kayla belonged with him and to him, and only him.
If anyone knew what he was doing now, they would be puzzled. Especially Jeffrey. He’d say, “Bro, why go to Ozy Hessinger’s house? If you need to vent some frustration, why not just punch Bret’s lights out or puncture one, or better yet, all of his tires?”
It would be just like Jeffrey to try to diffuse tension building in the moment by suggesting something ridiculous, to make him laugh. Only he didn’t feel like laughing. He hadn’t felt like it for a long time.
It made sense that others would think his jealousy would or should, logically, be aimed at Bret, who’d seen what an easy mark Kayla was.
He doubted anyone would understand his reason for why he was going where he shouldn’t be going, not at this time, not at any time: Because Ozy should be made to pay for what he did to me, my wife, and my family. They’d want to know why just Ozy. He’d be too ashamed to tell them.
He’d tried and failed to get over the humiliation of Kayla’s preference for Ozy over him. The conversation they’d had still stung.
“I’m a bigger success and a hell of a lot wealthier than Ozy ever will be,” he told her. “I own my businesses. He gets a paycheck.”
Kayla opened a bottle of water, sipped, and stared out the French doors of their kitchen. “Aerospace engineering is a hell of a lot more prestigious than what you do.”
“That’s bullshit.” He stuffed his trembling hands into his pockets. “Ozy can’t give you what I do. He’ll never love you—”
“The way you do?” Kayla glanced at him then away. Her grip on the water bottle tightened. “God, I hope that’s true. For one thing, he knows there’s more to life than money.”
Starks’ mouth dropped open. “That’s rich, coming from you. You need to wake up and realize you’re lying to yourself.”
“You’d like to believe that.” Kayla faced him with a jutted chin. “Ozy makes love to me in ways you’ll never be able to. You’ll never be that affectionate. Or intimate. You’re too emotionally removed. Disconnected.”
“One, if I became less affectionate, it’s because I’ve used my energy to work my ass off for years to give you everything you need and want. Two, this is an affair you’re having. For him, it’s a way to get into your pants. You think he treats his wife the way he treats you now? You think after he’s with you for a while he won’t do to you what he’s doing to her? If you think that, you’re a bigger fool than I realized.”
Kayla emptied the rest of the bottled water into the peace lily positioned on a stand near the French doors, left the empty bottle on the countertop then walked toward the family room.
Starks tossed the empty bottle into the trash compactor then slammed it shut. “Why do you do that? You know it annoys me.” He leaned against the counter, folded his arms. “Why can’t you just do the right thing?”
Kayla brought her lips into a pout. “Poor Starks. Doesn’t like life to be messy. Tell yourself whatever you need to about what’s going on. You always do.” Her expression was one of regret. “I’m getting older.”
Starks’s face registered his confusion. “So am I. What’s that got to do with anything?”
“I’m not wasting any more time on you and your delusions.”
A vein centered on his forehead pulsed. “You’re the one who’s deluded. You end this nonsense—all of it—right now. I’m warning you.”
Kayla laughed at him. “Go ahead and warn me all you want. What are you going to do, cut me off financially? Try it and see what happens. You’re pathetic.”
Her words echoed in his mind as he turned onto Tower Road. Perspiration beaded at his hairline. He pushed the sleeves of his cashmere sweater up to his elbows then wiped each sweaty palm in turn on his razor-creased pants. In the silent, pristine interior of the car, his grandfather’s voice was so clear, the old man could have been sitting next to him—“You reap what you sow, Freddy. Remember that.” Starks had been seven at the time, with no clue about what his grandfather meant. Sewing was for girls, was how his young mind had processed the statement. Now he understood: Ozy was about to reap what he’d sown, because he wasn’t leaving the Hessinger house until Margaret knew what a cheating, lowlife bastard she was married to. He practiced a number of ways to say this to her as he got onto the MA-117.
He turned the heater off and rolled his window down all the way, letting the crisp autumn air attempt to dry his face and fail. Another thought prodded him: Turn this car around and head home. But the memory of pained expressions and pleas of his three young children for life to return as it had once been impelled him to keep driving.
Starks got off the MA-117 and made one more turn until he went directly to the correct address. He’d driven by the Hessinger house a number of times at different hours of the days and nights, each time trying to decide what to do or if he should do anything at all. Tonight, what he believed he should do was clear in his mind.
CHAPTER 2
OZY’S SUV WAS parked in the driveway at the top of the slope. The inside of the house was dark. A quick glance at the digital clock on the dashboard showed it was after midnight. He hadn’t intended to go there this late; he hadn’t intended to go by there ever again. But his thoughts ate at him, until he had to do something to make them stop. To make all of it stop. Seeing Kayla with Bret had pushed him to this edge. In the dark interior of the car he slammed his hands on the steering wheel.
“Fuck all of them. I’m taking back control of my life.”
He parked at the foot of the driveway and got out. The temperature was dropping fast. Gusts of icy wind whipped at his face; treetops swayed and groaned. He leaned against the Bentley for several moments, shivering from cold and raw energy.
The grass crackled as he made his way toward the house, counting twenty-five steps as he dodged several children’s toys that had been left out. He approached the front door where hay bales, pumpkins, and gourds had been arranged. He ignored the doorbell and pulled open the outer glass door to access the solid wooden one, noting there was no peephole, its absence an indication that Ozy wasn’t afraid of what or who might come to his house. He raised a fist then held it back. There was still time to drive off, to just leave it all alone. Forcing an image of his children into his mind gave him courage. He swallowed hard then beat on the door without pause, until he heard someone turn the deadbolt on the other side.
Ozy wore his robe tied at his waist. His wife, also wrapped in a robe, and with hair flat on one side, stood behind him but to the right, eyes w
ide in fright at this disturbance.
Starks locked his gaze with Margaret’s. “I’m here to let your wife know what you’ve been doing. That you slept with Kayla, my wife, for three years. Of course, slept isn’t the right word.”
Slurred voices of children disturbed from sleep came from behind the couple. Ozy yelled for them to get back to bed. He told his wife to wait inside then stepped over the threshold, closing the glass door behind him. Loud enough for his wife to hear, he said, “You have the wrong house, buddy. I don’t know you or anyone named Kayla. Now get off my property, before I force you off.”
Starks’s expression darkened. His elbows pressed into his sides, his hands knotted into fists. The speech of well chosen words he’d practiced in his mind as he’d driven over vaporized.
“Liar! You’ve been screwing my wife in your car and anywhere else handy.” He pointed at Margaret. “Who knows what you told your wife you were doing—going to the store, working late, and God knows what else. You think you can destroy my family, all I’ve worked for, and get away with it? I want your wife to know what a two-timing loser she’s married to.”
Ozy lowered his voice. “You’re as stupid as you look standing here like a self-righteous ass. You’ve got a hot woman in your bed. You should be doing her instead of jacking off in front of my wife. Besides, there’s no reason for you to be here. I’m done with Kayla, who, as you know, has another man polishing her chrome now. No reason for you to be here other than some misplaced pride.”
“She was my wife!”
“What can I say? I’m a use ’em then lose ’em kinda guy.”
Starks backed up a few steps, realizing how pointless it was to try to get Ozy to feel remorse of any kind. He’d done what he came here to do: Margaret had heard him. It was time to leave, time to return to Emma and her soothing warmth.
Ozy moved forward. “You don’t know how to please a woman. Kayla was so fucking grateful that she couldn’t do enough for me. If that new piece of ass of yours needs it done right, tell her to call me.” He jabbed Starks’s chest with his finger. “In the bedroom Mechanical Man, you’re a waste of space.”
Starks had always seen himself as a rational man. But Ozy’s arrogance overwhelmed him. The fact that he was no longer able to go home to his children, no longer able to kiss their foreheads each night as they slept, in effect, having been forced from sharing daily life with them because of this man, had festered inside him like a wound with no cure.
