PALINDROME Read online

  PALINDROME

  Trilogy: Book One

  It’s a hot summer night on Long Island. The Suds Shack is packed—lots of kids partying at a bar. In the crowd is a girl who is different from anyone else.

  A guy on the prowl—plop goes a pill into her drink. Her world spins out of control.

  He thought he had her; now he’s dead, and she’s coming for his accomplice. They picked the wrong girl to mess with.

  She can look like you or me, or anyone else she may choose to become. Lexa and her brother Ax have a special talent, a unique gift.

  In Book One, Lexa and Ax find themselves entangled in a web of murder, drugs, and manipulation.

  PALINDROME

  Trilogy: Book One

  Lawrence Kelter

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales, or persons living or dead, is coincidental.

  PALINDROME Copyright © 2012 by Lawrence Kelter

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  First Edition – June 2012

  --------------------------------

  Forever and longer

  Isabella

  PALINDROME

  Trilogy: Book One

  One: The Night of

  It was a hot summer night, and the music was loud. Not just loud, pounding: Lady Gaga, pounding, Pink, pounding, Beyoncé, pounding. Three hundred kids were dancing under the moon-filled sky. The beat was so loud that it consumed you. How loud was it? It was so loud that half a mile away, citizens in the retirement community were stuffing cotton into their ears to get some sleep.

  The air was warm and damp, uncomfortably damp. Skin was glistening on the dance floor. Some of it was mine. I was showing too much and not caring. I was wearing a short skirt. It was too short, shorter than it should’ve been. Jamie Foxx sang, “Blame it on the alcohol.”

  The Suds Shack was an insanely crowded Long Island watering hole. The drinks were cheap and strong. Thirsty young folks were lined up three-deep at the bar. It was a college student’s dream come true. It was practically our raison d'être, drinking, laughing, blowing off steam, and loving it.

  I was taking summer session so I would be able to graduate ahead of the pack. Jobs on Long Island were not very plentiful. They were almost nonexistent. It certainly wasn’t a prospect to look forward to. So tonight, I was living in the moment and having a little fun. A couple of drinks can wash away an awful lot of pain.

  My best friend Gabi was making her way across the floor. Her smile preceded her, as it always did, with those big, round cheeks and those incredible, round, hazel eyes. She was fanning herself with her hands (as if those paltry little things could cool off a girl her size). I was never sure if the Rubenesque figure bothered her. If it did, I certainly never knew it. Gabi was fun to be with all the time. She was always laughing and always smiling. If that was her way of coping with a poor self-image, I have to tell you, sign me up. She had to turn sideways so that she could cut across the dance floor. She was sweating up a storm, panting, and out of breath. She grabbed me by the hand and yanked me off the dance floor just as the band finished its set. I picked up someone’s empty Corona. I pretended it was a microphone and began spooning her, singing “Grenade” by Bruno Mars: “To give me all your love is all I ever asked, ‘cause what you don’t understand is . . .”

  Gabi didn’t miss a beat. She grabbed a Coors Light out of some guy’s hand just as the bottle was on its way to his mouth. She followed me right in, “I’d catch a grenade for ya, throw my hand on a blade for ya . . .”

  We were drawing a crowd. We leaned in toward one another as the bar folks joined in, “I’d jump in front of a train for ya. You know I’d do anything for ya.”

  Our cover ended with a moment of hysterical laughter. The guy whose bottle of Coors had become Gabi’s microphone came over thinking he had an opening to hit on us, but Gabi gave him the no, no, no finger wave. She handed him back his bottle. “Thanks for the prop, man,” she said, and the guy returned from whence he came. Gabi had that in her repertoire; as sweet as she was, she could shut you down cold. I felt for that guy, getting emasculated with the slightest of hand gestures like that. To make things worse, the DJ was playing Pink’s “U + Ur Hand.” I hope the poor guy was tight with his therapist.

  As soon as the last song was over, the DJ began spinning Rihanna’s “S&M.” I grabbed Gabi and tried to yank her back onto the dance floor, but here too, she was in a different weight classification and there was no moving her.

  “Damn, Lexa. Take a break, I’m dying,” she said.

  I was dancing in place, pretending that I didn’t hear her. She dissed me with a look that said, really? I stopped for her sake and strutted over to the bar. “Two margaritas, extra salt.” The bartender was on it in a flash. He poured the Cuervo heavy—his drinks were knocking me on my ass.

  Gabi and I clinked glasses. The drinks were cold, sweet, and syrupy, a surefire remedy for the heat and humidity. We threw them down in a couple of quick gulps.

  “Someone’s feeling no pain,” Gabi said.

  “I’m miserable,” I said with a grin so silly it betrayed me.

  By the time we put our glasses down on the bar, another round was waiting for us. I raised my hand to indicate to the bartender that we had not ordered another round. Not that we didn’t want them, but who was going to pay for them? Anyway, a girl’s got to know her limits. He pointed across the dance floor. I followed his gaze. “They’re on that guy,” he said.

  I shrugged. “Cool,” I said, waiting for the bartender to tell us his name.

  He finally gave it up. “I’m Keith,” he replied with a quick smile and then began to wipe down the bar.

  “Thanks, Keith.” He was pretty cute, but you could just see that he was full of himself. With a guy like Keith, it was either “game on” or be gone.

  Keith winked, and then I turned to look at the guy who had plunked down his hard-earned dough for us. He had piercing baby blues and a five o’clock shadow over a big square jaw. I toasted him from afar with the fresh margarita and then turned toward Gabi. I mean I wasn’t going to make it that easy for him; playing hard-to-get was fun. Besides, everything was moving so fast: too much alcohol and too much adrenaline, not the best combination for making an intelligent decision.

  “Girl, he’s cute. Are you going to talk to him?” Gabi said.

  “I’m thinking about it.” I started to giggle uncontrollably. “I’m totally shit-faced. Maybe I better not.”

  “Are you confuzzled?”

  “Yes, Gabi, I’m completely confuzzled.” She was using one of my self-invented portmanteaus. Confuzzled meant that I was confused, puzzled, and my thinking was a little fuzzy.

  Gabi’s big, brown eyes grew wide. “Shit, Lexa, he’s coming over.”

  “Crap!” I started to giggle again. The alcohol was taking over.

  He was standing behind me. “You could be my type,” he said.

  The poor guy had no idea who he was talking to. I could be anyone’s type if it suited me, and it had suited me many times before. There were things about me that were pretty bizarre. “I’m not sure that’s a proper advance,” I replied.

  “Really, I thought that was a pretty good pickup line,” he said.

  Really? I fought off another round of the giggles while I figured out how far I should let this go. You had to be careful with some of these Suffolk County boys; some of them were decent guys and some of the
m were pickup-truck-driving hicks, who in an earlier time would’ve sported a mullet haircut. A denim shirt with torn off sleeves was still a big look in Suffolk County. You know what I mean, the Joe Dirt look.

  Which one was he?

  “I’m Vincent,” he said, as he extended his hand. He was holding a Blue Moon Ale in the other. His cuffs were rolled up to the middle of his forearms, revealing the start of a full-sleeve tattoo, no colors, just black ink—an etching of an exotic woman. It was actually pretty tasteful.

  Vincent, he’d said, not Vinnie or Vin. He sounded like a gumba to me, an Italian guy who might be a little too macho for his own good. He was cute nonetheless. Were gumbas okay? I was too sloshed to think straight. What do I do with this guy? Is a dance too much? Is small talk too little? Do I even want to get started? Like I said, we had just come out to blow off a little steam, and I didn’t need a new guy complicating my life. Not now, not so soon after putting recent troubles behind me.

  Gabi was my sister in all things. She was in my head, listening to my thoughts as I was thinking them. She stepped between Vincent and me to create a little space. Okay, a lot of space, but it was badly needed space.

  “Hi, I’m Gabrielle,” she said. “My friend was just about to introduce us.”

  “Introduce you?” Vincent said. He smirked. “She hasn’t even introduced herself.”

  “I’m her handler.” Gabi’s expression said, deal with it. “If you want to get to her you have to go through me.” I don’t know how she kept a straight face.

  I wanted to break out laughing and almost lost it. Now, a clod would have made a tasteless comment about Gabi’s weight and how tough getting through her would be, but Vincent had it under control. He was quiet for a moment before speaking. His eyes softened. He actually looked kind of vulnerable. “One dance?” he said and made one of those wounded puppy dog faces.

  Damn but I wanted to dance with him now. It wasn’t a heavily contemplated decision; it was an impulse, like grabbing a scandal mag when you’re on the checkout line at the supermarket. I took another sip of the margarita and instantly realized that it was one sip too many. My brain felt like it had broken loose and was floating around in my head—okay, I’m not being literal. Now, I’ve been over the edge before and knew the jeopardy of those murky, chartered waters. A girl like me, a girl with issues and secrets knew better than to lose control, but he took my hand and gently led me onto the dance floor. I didn’t put up a fight. Something inside said, “Take it slow,” but the dance beat said, “Don’t listen.” The beat said, “Shake your ass and have a good time.”

  Gabi watched like a hawk from her post at the bar. She gave me that “I’ve got my eye on you” gesture that DeNiro made famous in those Focker movies. I acknowledged with a nod. It was my tether to stability, and to reality. Although it was meant to keep me centered, in actuality it gave me a false sense of security. It made me feel as if someone was looking after me and that no wrong could take place while Gabi was on guard.

  Now, the odds of maintaining control were not in my favor; I had a primo buzz going on, and the DJ started to spin Katy Perry. I mean, it was like a setup or something. I’m normally a pretty adult type of thinker, but I was getting swept up in the moment and didn’t feel like acting like an adult. I just wanted to have fun: screw summer session, screw the Long Island job market, a dwindling bank balance, pressure, and responsibility. Screw it all, just for a little while. I was not the responsible girl I needed to be, and for the moment, I didn’t care.

  Gabi still had her eye on me. I had the feeling she would rip me off the dance floor if she became concerned about me. I was glad that she was watching. Did it mean that I didn’t have to?

  Now, Vincent had some moves. He was a good dancer, a bit of a showboat, and I was doing my best to keep up with him. It wasn’t long before things started to head south. We’ve all been there, teetering over the abyss but knowing you had what it took to pull yourself back to safety. I tried to think a simple thought through to a conclusion, to test myself on something I had studied in school that afternoon. I tried and tried, but I couldn’t string my thoughts together. The heat, the adrenaline, and the alcohol were all conspiring against me.

  I looked back toward the bar for Gabi. She would see that I needed help. I never thought for a minute that she wouldn’t be there when I needed her. She was always there, whether I asked or not. I caught a glimpse of her, heading to the ladies room. She looked like she was going to be sick. Shit! My head began to spin, and then the world started to close in around me. It grew darker and darker as the tunnel narrowed before me. I was no longer dancing. I was standing on the dance floor, doing my best to stay upright. I began to scan the faces around me for someone who might help. I had made casual contact with the bartender and the DJ during the evening, but I was unable to make eye contact with either of them now.

  After a moment I realized that everyone on the dance floor had begun to stare at me. I had become that girl, the one who couldn’t keep her shit together—the one to stay clear of or she would hurl all over you. Did anyone care enough to help?

  What to do? Find a chair. Put my head down to keep the blood flowing to my brain.

  There was only one person I could turn to for help, one person, who just happened to be a total stranger. I looked up at Vincent, hoping that he would turn out to be the guy I needed him to be. I searched his eyes to see if he understood, to see if he was concerned, and to see if he was going to be there for me. I searched his eyes for all those things, but what I saw chilled my heart and dashed any hope to bits. I didn’t see concern or empathy in his eyes. He was not judging me, and he did not seem alarmed. He was staring at me coolly, like a lizard about to devour a fly. He was waiting for me to pass out.

  Two: Is That Me?

  I felt groggy as I opened my eyes and was immediately aware that my environment had changed. The air was cool and dry. Even in my impaired state I knew that I was now indoors and lying on a bed. I touched my arm and felt goose bumps rise as I slid my fingers along my forearm. The room was dark and quiet, and it took a moment for me to realize that my top and skirt were gone. I frantically touched all over. Thank God! My bra and panties were still on. My heart started to race wildly, and my adrenaline level surged. It took a moment before I was able to gather my thoughts. What happened? How long have I been out? The last thing I remembered was being on the dance floor and feeling as if I were about to pass out. I remembered Vincent’s eyes, the eyes of a cold-blooded reptile. I didn’t think I had been raped, but I couldn’t be sure.

  My mind was fuzzy, and my head ached. My vision was blurred when a face came into view. It was my face. Christ, was I dreaming? Was I dead? I didn’t know which horror to embrace. I could feel my chest tighten and my breathing become labored.

  “Shhh! Don’t make any noise.” The face in front of me—my face—was holding a finger to her lips. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  I nodded nervously before whispering. “I think so. I hope so.” I felt tears welling up. “I don’t know.”

  “You’re okay. You haven’t been here long. I think I got here in time.”

  And then I found a higher level of consciousness, and somehow I understood.

  “Can you get up?” she said.

  “I think so. I’ll try.”

  “Slowly. Take it easy. You were really out of it.”

  I put my feet off the side of the bed one at a time and felt the cool wood floor beneath them. She handed me a sheet. I used it to cover up. “You wait right here. I’ve got something to do.”

  “No, wait with me. Wait here! Where are you going?” I pleaded in a muffled whisper.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, “I’ve got this. You’ll be fine.” I watched as she walked to the mirror and checked her appearance. As she walked toward the bedroom doorway, I noticed that she was wearing my skirt and my top. The very edges of my lips curled upward.

  She opened the door, and I watched her glide slowly but p
urposely out of the bedroom. She told me to wait, but I couldn’t, I wouldn’t. There was no glue strong enough to bind my feet where I stood. I crept slowly to the door and kept myself hidden in the shadow so that I wouldn’t be seen.

  Vincent was in the other room. He had just kicked off his shoes and had begun to unbutton his shirt. The TV was on, and the volume was up high. He jumped when she entered the room. He clutched his chest.

  “Shit, Babe, I thought you’d be out for hours yet,” Vincent said. The cocky, lizard-like expression was gone. Confronted, his expression indicated guilt.

  Out for hours yet? Why? I wondered.

  Vincent seemed as if he had been caught off guard. He shuffled his feet nervously as she approached. Clearly, he did not know how to deal with the change of circumstances. I had a clear view of them both as she moved closer.

  When the change comes, it comes quickly. I watched attentively and waited for that moment when it would arrive, the moment of revelation that I knew would hit Vincent hard.

  And then it came. I first saw the muscles of her upper back grow large. The slope of her shoulders changed into a powerful contour that led to well-developed deltoids. I saw her biceps swell, and her arms become sinewy and muscular.

  Vincent appeared to be frozen to the floor. He was mesmerized by the changes that were taking place before his eyes. Her leg swept backward, and her torso tilted into an aikido pose in preparation for the enormous blow I knew she was about to deliver. Without warning, her flattened hand shot forward like the release of a catapult. Her hands moved too quickly for my eyes to follow. I heard a loud whoosh as air was forced from Vincent’s lungs, and the thud of her hand as it smashed against Vincent’s chest. It was like the thunder that followed a flash of lightning. I heard the smack against the Sheetrock as Vincent slammed into the wall. Plaster flaked to the floor. The wall cracked as it gave way to the force of the blow, except where Vincent’s head hit the wall, where the heavy support beam resided behind the Sheetrock. Vincent slid to the floor. Blood ran from his ears.