Just Evil

Other Books by Vickie
McKeehan

The Evil Trilogy

JUST EVIL

DEEPER EVIL

ENDING EVIL (June
2012)

Pelican Pointe Novels

PROMISE COVE

HIDDEN MOON BAY

DANCING TIDES (fall
of 2012)

For
Gene and Keith,

who read
and read until their eyes hurt and

offered
up suggestions and critiques.

Thank
you. Without you guys there

would
be no books.

“Evil
is unspectacular and always human,

And
shares our bed and eats at our own table.”

W. H. Auden, Poet

1907 – 1973

So much for warm, sunny Southern California in the spring,
he decided as he shivered under the jacket he wore and took another sip of hot
coffee to warm his bones.

Sitting by the front window, he did his best not to stare at
the reason he’d gotten up at the crack of dawn and driven in a steady downpour
to check out the daughter. He took his eyes off the blonde long enough to gaze
out the window and watch rain pelt the glass. The wind picked up and sent loose
debris flying past the window in a gust.

It started to rain again—hard. It was just his luck he’d
timed his trip to L.A. at the same time an El Niño storm arrived and dumped
enough water on the area to make everything west of the 101 look like
beachfront property. In a way the weather made him homesick for the land of his
birth. But then, this was nothing compared to a bad-tempered Irish gale.

Sunny California my ass, he thought. Where were the
bikini-clad women, the hot bodies sunbathing at the beach? Glancing out the
window again, he decided that until the rain let up and the sun came out there
was no chance in hell of seeing any bikini-clad bodies lying half-naked in the
sun. No sun, no bikinis.

Doesn’t matter, he decided; he was stuck here, rain or
shine, until he was done. He took a long look at the blonde, and couldn’t help
but wonder how she’d ended up in such a backwater, out-of-the-way dump like San
Madrid. If there were more than four thousand people living here, he’d give up
drinking for a week.

Which made him wonder how Alana’s daughter had gone from
Beverly Hills to living in this Podunk little fishing village nestled up
against the Pacific Ocean and working in the bookstore-slash-coffee shop known
as the Book & Bean in which he was now sitting.

The shop sat in the middle of the block, off an old
cobblestone main street, across from a town square complete with a picturesque
free-flowing fountain.

Antique streetlights with old-fashioned street signs gave
him the impression he’d wandered onto the back lot of a studio rather than a
genuine town. If it hadn’t been pouring rain, he might have wandered into a few
of the shops along Main Street or walked down to the waterfront to check out
the row of sailboats he’d seen from the Coast Highway. But sightseeing wasn’t
why he was here.

He watched Kit Griffin move with graceful efficiency behind
the polished but worn oak wood counter waiting on customers streaming in out of
the rain. He sipped his coffee and settled in, enjoying the ambiance of the
place. It was hard not to in spite of his mood.

The Book & Bean, with its scuffed hardwood floors and
retro furnishings, seemed to be a gathering place for everyone in town even in
this miserable weather. Since he’d parked himself near the front door, harried
soccer moms and dads rushed in and out with children in tow as a contingent of
older folks tried to squeeze in around several small oak tables or stand to the
side, waiting for one of the comfy, overstuffed chairs to open up. The place
felt homey on a rainy day. Even the artwork hanging on the walls had him
feeling melancholy. When he finally decided to retire, give up this lifestyle,
he might enjoy living…

He scrubbed a hand over his face and tried to shake off his
wistful mood. Jesus, what was happening to him anyway? Enjoy this backwater
dump? Not in this lifetime. He needed to get a grip. This tendency to
reminiscence had to stop. Jesus, the place was starting to get to him. No, he
thought, not the place, the damned miserable weather was making him crazy. He
needed to see the sun.

He took another long look at Kit Griffin—and relaxed. He’d
purposefully saved her for last. And now after getting a good look at her up
close and personal, he decided the two hour drive in the pouring rain had been
well worth every second he’d spent sitting behind the wheel of his rented
Chevy.

He continued to stare at the pretty young thing with smooth,
golden skin and soulful green eyes the color of fine Irish heather. Tall, maybe
five eight or nine; it was hard to tell exactly as he watched her move behind
the counter. Her silvery blonde mane neatly tied back into a ponytail kept it
from falling around her face as she diligently worked the counter, filling
orders for the customers standing in line.

He couldn’t say she favored her mother. No―Alana
Stevens, the former actress, had lived in the fast lane too long to make a good
comparison. And at this stage of the game there’d been too many trips under the
knife to get the skin tightened. Alana’s face showed the damage one would
expect for a woman her age in spite of the Botox factory and every brand of
wonder cream that promised to keep her skin looking supple. Of course no amount
of expensive cream could wipe away the damage that too many drugs and too much
booze had wrought on her body. Nothing could bring back how she’d looked in her
prime. And up to now, Alana had pretty much lived a life of excess, done
whatever she pleased and with whom, but tonight he would remind her that all
good things must come to an end.

That brightened his mood. As he sipped his coffee, he put
down the newspaper he’d pretended to read and went over his plans again in his
head. He bit into the tasty apple tart the pretty blonde had recommended as the
house specialty, and tasted heaven. He momentarily forgot about his prey. The
cinnamon-nutmeg combination had him smiling into the goddamned rain outside. He
sat back and relished the moment because he knew the drive back to L.A. in this
stuff would be hell.

He took another bite of his pastry, enjoying the view of the
blonde from his seat by the window, anticipating the night ahead.

Kit absently wiped down the counter for the umpteenth time
that morning before she automatically poured a fourth cup of coffee for Mr. Planter,
who had to be ninety if he was a day. Nodding politely at his comment about the
foul weather as if he’d been the first person to walk in off the street that
morning and want to discuss it, she glanced out the window to check the nasty
weather in question―and smiled.

At least the storm wasn’t keeping her regulars away.
Squeezed around one of the six little oak tables, they drank espressos or
lattes, ate the homemade pastries she’d baked the night before, or simply
lounged in several of the oversized chairs, reading the best sellers they’d
purchased in the bookstore―her bookstore.

In spite of the dreary weather, Kit took pride in that.

And it was about damn time.

She knew even a glimmer from the past could send her into an
abyss―if she let it. She didn’t intend to let it. Whenever memories of
childhood tried to jam their way inside her head, she simply pushed the bad to
that corner of her brain where the vault kept the awful past locked away.

After all, she hadn’t sampled normal until twelve when her
aunt Gloria had finally moved out West and provided an alternate place to go at
times when life with Alana became unbearable, which too frequently had. But
that was living life with a viper, one that could strike without warning, and
certain to leave a scar. 

There was no point in dwelling on what was.

She forced a smile for her customers and worked her way
through the tables and chairs, picking up empty coffee cups and trash along the
way. With a determined push to her shoulders, she stepped behind the counter to
make fresh coffee for the late morning rush still blessedly streaming through
the doors.

In his Westlake Village office, Jake Boston sat at his desk
putting the finishing touches on a multi-million dollar deal he’d been working
on for the better part of a year—in Tokyo. It hadn’t really taken a year to
close the deal. Nor had it been necessary to fly six thousand miles to get it
done. But being away from L.A. had given him distance and time to think about what
was missing in his life. He was afraid he knew the answer.

A year ago, he’d been tempted to dip his toes into water he
had no business getting near. He’d gotten close. She would have let him take
her to bed.

It had been twelve long months since he’d seen her. He’d
been back two weeks and had yet to pick up the phone. He’d never lacked
confidence in anything before, but the idea of confronting her had him
feeling—edgy.