The Poet (Samantha Jazz Series #1) - Lisa Renee Jones Page 0,2

against my face. I suck in air, but it won’t come. I start to push against the book and Nicholas. But suddenly, he’s gone. I scramble back and onto my hands to find the new boy punching Nicholas. Now Nicholas is on his back and the new boy is on top of him. I can’t watch. I scramble to my feet and take off running.

…

“Thomas Whitaker! Kevin is here! It’s time to leave for school.”

At my mom’s shout, I grab my book bag and run downstairs. I head for the door only to have her call out, “Stop right there, young man!”

“Oh, Mom,” I moan, slumping forward and turning to look at her.

She wipes her hands on her apron and leans down, pointing at her cheek. I kiss her and she says, “Much better. Be safe and good.”

“Yes, Mom,” I murmur, and she motions me onward, offering me my freedom.

I don’t wait for her to change her mind. I launch myself toward the door and exit to the porch, where I find Kevin at the bottom of the steps, stuffing his face with a chocolate-covered glazed doughnut. Intending to take half of that beauty for myself, I dash down the steps and vault to a finish in front of him. He laughs and shoves the last bite into his mouth.

Grimacing in disappointment, I watch him lick his fingers. “Dad made breakfast,” he announces, “which means he brought home doughnuts. I love when Mom goes to work early.”

“Jerk,” I say.

He hands me a bag. “One for you.”

“Not a jerk,” I correct, hiking my bag on my shoulder and accepting my prize, while sirens scream in the distance. “Thank you.”

We start walking and the sirens grow louder. “Wonder what that’s all about,” Kevin asks, looking over his shoulder and then back at me. “Maybe Old Man Michaels who owns that corner store is beating his wife again.”

“Or the dog,” I suggest. “I heard he beats his dog, too.”

“No way,” Kevin gasps. “The dog?”

I nod and assure him it’s true. “That’s what I heard.”

“Man,” he says. “That’s bad.”

I pull my doughnut from the bag. “That stuff after school yesterday was bad, too, right?”

“I know, right?” Kevin eyes me. “I wanted to help poor Henry, but I didn’t want to get beat up, too.”

“Me too.” I test the chocolate with a lick of my tongue. “That new boy helped and he’s big.” I take a bite. It’s really good. “I love this doughnut.”

“Right?” Kevin says. “Those are the best. So is the new girl,” he adds. “She’s pretty.”

I shrug and take another bite. “I guess.”

“Hey! Hey! Heyyyy!”

We stop walking and turn to find our next best friend, Connor, running toward us, arms flying around wildly.

“What’s his deal?” Kevin murmurs.

“Probably mad because we didn’t ask him to walk to school with us,” I suggest.

“I had only one extra doughnut,” Kevin whispers. “What do I say to him?”

Connor screeches to a halt in front of us and leans forward, hands on his thighs, panting hard. “Class is cancelled.”

I finish my doughnut. “Sister Marion sick or something?” Now I lick my fingers.

“No,” Connor says, straightening, hands on his hips. “I heard my mom talking on the phone. One of the kids from class is dead. As in never coming to class again.”

Kevin and I both drop our backpacks and together ask, “Who?”

“Don’t know,” Connor says. “But they found him down by the creek.”

Chapter 1

Present Day

I sit in the back row of the theater-style Austin, Texas speakeasy, the air conditioner cranked on high, soothing the heat of a hot August night. A stage sits in the center of the room, and there is whiskey in my hand—an expensive pour of a high-end Macallan—my preferred drink. I’m loyal to what I believe to be quality in all things. There are other, more affordable whiskey choices, of course, but when I’m alone, without my family, I am no longer forced to play the frugal husband and father. A role that is cumbersome, but necessary to protect a higher purpose I must serve.

I glance at the attendees of tonight’s poetry reading, counting twenty heads, the ages varied; one young woman can’t be more than sixteen, while one man’s shriveled skin ages to sixty-plus.

This is a cozy little spot indeed, and I sip my Macallan, oaky with a hot lick on the tongue, as Michael Summer steps to the microphone. He has thick dark hair, much like the look I’ve created for myself in this persona. He’s tall, six-foot-two, I imagine, a