Road Rage

my thanks to my very talented little girl who dreamed up this idea for the cover, she's a graphic whiz! thanks Storm...

Excerpt 1:

The death and supernatural disorder that plagued him throughout his life could be traced back to a single event in Desmond Luca’s life…

Excerpt 2:

Paul noticed the eighteen-wheeler in his driver’s side mirror but his mind only registered the rat faced smile of Stewart Blankenship.

The blast from the eighteen-wheeler’s air horn brought him back.

“Shut up!” Paul yelled gesturing with his phone and correcting back into his own lane.

“If that little bastard thinks he’s going to stiff me on this deal, he’s sadly mistaken!” Paul paused, looking at the cornfields swishing passed.

“He what? No, no, no. He knows that we settled on 2.5 million and he’s not going to renegotiate now! I’m late to Omaha as it is and I’m not going to—”

Another pause.

“What?”

Pause again.

“Hang on let me check.” Paul took the phone away from his ear and steered with his forearm again while rifling through the folders on the passenger seat. He snatched several pages of notes.

“I, Uh…” He flipped pages and then felt the vibration of the warning track on the road’s shoulder. He swerved back into the lane and glanced at the speedometer, 78.

“No. Wait. Here’s my originals. It’s as plain as his pointy nose!”

“Huh?” he paused again.

“ No Ann, I don’t—” Paul hesitated. “No, Ann! With that sort of change we’ll be losing more than— Hold on again—” He laid the pages on his lap and positioned his knee against the wheel. He caught the latch on the glove compartment and reached in. Coming up with a small calculator he punched the buttons with his thumb. “We’ll stand to lose $256 thousand and change! We can’t afford to take a hit like that!” He threw the calculator back on the seat and it slid off the edge in-between the passenger door and the seat.

“Oh Crap!” He took hold of the wheel again, balancing the sheets in his lap.

“No. It’s the calculator, it— never mind.”

Returning to steering with his knee, Paul reached into his breast pocket and produced a pack of cigarettes. He shook the pack until he could mouth a stick and pull it from the pack. He punched the lighter on the console and in a moment touched it to the end, crackling the paper as it caught on fire.

Paul took a drag and exhaled, short puffy bursts spitting out of his lips.

“Alls’ I’m saying Ann is that I don’t want to give up my commission on the deal and I don’t think you want to either?” He sucked in and blew again.

“You kidding? I don’t think that’s feasible.” He looked at his speedometer bringing the needle back up to 87.

“Really? If we give concessions on that, then—” He paused again. “Okay, Okay, hold on—” He went back into forearm steering position and threw the pages back on the seat, pawing through another folder.

“Okay, I’ve got the revised version here. Now what’s he want to change?”

Paul listened.

“Alright. Yeah, let me find a pen. I’m trying to drive here, you know. No, I don’t have my head set—” He hesitated. “I left it at home. Hang on again—”

He rested his phone on the steering wheel, guiding the midnight blue bullet down the road. Paul opened the padded lid of the armrest console and rooted around for a pen. He glanced to the side window, the corn fields still whizzed past. He looked down the road, then into the rear view mirror, back to the console and then back through the windshield. Paul felt it and finally produced a Shapie, fine point marker. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and pushed the electric window button on the door snipping the half smoked cylinder out the slit. He slid the pen into his mouth and popped the pen loose, holding the cap in his teeth.

“Okay, give me the changes,” he said with impeded speech and began jotting on the paper.

—

Desmond Luca saw the smoke a mile and a half down the interstate. He began to slow when he neared the flames. He looked down the highway in front of him, no vehicles. He glanced in his rear view mirror, nothing behind him. He slowed and pulled over to the median rolling slowly toward the maimed SUV.

The bridge supports were barely scarred.

That’s some pretty tough concrete.

He stopped and got out of the car.

A small calculator lay smashed in the weeds.

Flecks of dark blue paint fluttered to the dirt while tongues of fire licked the engine compartment.

Paul Trimble lay face down in the gravel. His mangled leg lay partially on the asphalt and was folded like a hinge in the middle of the shin. Paul’s white underwear now embedded with gravel and grass, shown through the tears in his Gabardine trousers soaking with blood from a shattered pelvis.

Paul’s eyes were fixed, staring through the weeds at what was left of his showroom vehicle.

Desmond squatted and peered into his face.

“You?” Paul’s word gurgled from his lips.

“I told you not to drive like that.” Desmond smiled.

.