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    Summer: A Vince Harper Story
    Summer: A Vince Harper Story
    Summer: A Vince Harper Story
    Ebook69 pages1 hour

    Summer: A Vince Harper Story

    By Brad Chambers

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    About this ebook

    The world has a way of intruding into your life. Even if you're a lonely writer who lives a secluded life by choice. Sometimes the world has blue eyes, a beautiful face, and trouble trailing it.
    A late night walk after too much bourbon leads Vince to a surprising discovery. It starts him on an adventure that just might get him killed.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBrad Chambers
    Release dateJan 15, 2017
    ISBN9781370956654
    Summer: A Vince Harper Story
    Author

    Brad Chambers

    Brad Chambers is a writer of Science Fiction, Mystery, and Romance. He lives in central Illinois with his wife of thirty years and a yellow Lab named Jonah.

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      Book preview

      Summer - Brad Chambers

      SUMMER

      Written by Brad Chambers

      Copyright 2017 Brad Chambers

      Cover art in part by George Hodan

      with thanks to Pixabay

      Published by Brad Chambers at Smashwords

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      SUMMER

      Chapter 1

      The grinding of the shredder as it chewed and swallowed the first draft, of the first page, of my latest book, caused the ache in my temples to increase to the point it felt like someone was twisting the knife that had been thrust into my head. The ache had been increasing exponentially at intervals which coincided with the draining of the tumbler of bourbon sitting next to the half empty bottle nestled alongside the typewriter on my scarred up desk. The typewriter was an old Remington that had belonged to my father. He had never used it, but it had been his so I kept it.

      I'd been trying to start this book for three days. The story had been rattling around in my head for two years and I was finally getting around to putting it on paper. At least I was trying to. The trash can next to my desk had eaten too much and was regurgitating its contents onto the hardwood floor of the tiny office I hid in when the words and ideas needed to find their way out of my sometimes tortured mind. I had noticed this and switched to the shredder. It was better for my words to be completely destroyed anyway.

      The pain subsided a little and I refilled the tumbler. The clink of glass on glass, and the gentle swish of the amber liquid the only sounds in the room. The smooth sounds of Coltrane on the old record player had long since ceased to comfort and the needle arm sat silently on its rest. I prefer the scritch scritch of old vinyl to the impersonal perfectly pitched music of an mp3 when I am writing. It fits better with the clack of the old Remington.

      I poured some of the bourbon down my throat and winced as my stomach fluttered from lack of solid food. My right hand twisted the knob as my left fed the paper between the guides on the battered machine. Some more bourbon, another wince, and my fingers started punching at the keys again.

      This time I almost filled the page before I yanked the paper out and fed it to the shredder. It made a throaty sound as if it wanted to follow the trash cans example with its contents. I glanced at the small view port on the side of the receptacle and saw the torn remains of unwanted thoughts pressing against it as if trying to escape.

      I drained the last of the liquid fire from my glass and turned my squeaky desk chair around so I could peer out the filthy window at the flashes of lightning that accompanied the distant rumblings I had heard since the record player had stopped. It fit with the story that was searching for the exit door of my brain.

      A short walk in the air of the approaching storm might help things out. It would at least sober me up a little. I didn't have an umbrella so I put on the old fedora that my daughter had given me years ago to hang in my writing office. It matched the rest of the decor. Out of date and shabby.

      The bourbon hadn't completely taken hold of me yet, so I remembered to grab the door keys as I fumbled my way out into the early morning darkness. The dim light of the stars was gradually being pursued out of the sky by the rolling storm clouds that were approaching from the west. I studied them for a few seconds and determined I had enough time to make it down the half mile of blacktop road to the nearest intersection and back, without getting wet.

      The winds were just starting to throw dust from the surrounding fields into the air, causing a tickle in my nose, when I exited the drive and headed north. The air was refreshing and my mind began to clear somewhat, but there was still that alcohol induced fuzziness around the edges of everything. At first I attributed what I saw to the bourbon, but as I neared the crossroad the shape came into partial focus.

      It took my worn out mind a few confused moments to accept that there was a person lying in the ditch just to the right of the stop sign. Face down in the weeds with an arm stretched out as if reaching for the old fence post to pull themselves farther from the road.

      A quick look in all directions gave me no clues as to where the person had come from. No vehicles in the ditch, no tail lights disappearing into the distance, no lights showing at either of the houses that were in sight. Only the glaring glow of the irritating security

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