Amy Maxwell & the 7 Deadly Sins (The Amy Maxwell Series Book 2)

Amy Maxwell

&

The 7 Deadly Sins

Heather Balog

Amy Maxwell & the 7 Deadly Sins

Heather Balog

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

Copyright 2015 Heather Balog

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Cover design and Photography by: Anita B. Carroll of Race-Point.com

ISBN 978-1508589020

Published 2015

Published in the United States of America

To my Roger, Lexie, and Colt…aka Mike, Tara and Ryan…thanks for the laughs. To my own sister who is nothing like Beth…I’m so glad we didn’t need to be kidnapped to have a great relationship.

~*~

I don’t know how I keep getting into these messes…really, I don’t. After last year you would think I would be more careful, but I’ve discovered that trouble just seems to find me, even if I try my hardest to avoid it. So here I am, locked in the trunk of a car, speeding toward certain death.

Maybe I should have minded my own business and not gone with Beth. No, that’s not right…who am I to deny my sister if she needs my help and um, expertise? No, this time, it’s not my fault, not my fault at all. This would have happened whether I minded my business or not. Well, for the most part. Actually, if I think about it, I’m pretty sure I can attribute this entire conundrum to the Seven Deadly Sins. Not that I’m super religious or anything, but I don’t think I’d be in the position I’m in right now if it weren’t for those Seven Sins. And not entirely sins on my part, either. In fact,
most
of them are someone else’s sins and yet, I’m going to be the one to pay the piper. Me
and
Beth, if I can’t figure out how to save us.

Damn! Roger is going to be furious if he finds out about this, even though it’s partly
his
fault, too. Well, he’ll find out about it alright. That’s not debatable. The only thing that’s up for debate is whether I’ll be alive to feel his wrath. I’m kind of hoping that I will. I’m really praying for a positive outcome to all this; not just for myself, but for everyone involved. And there’s a whole lot of people involved. This has been building for awhile. It all started back in September…

~One~

He slides his muscular arm over my shoulder, pulling me closer to his body. I feel the heat radiating off of him, my pulse speeding up to match his. Sweat is beading on my forehead as a result of the warmth of his body and the small space in which we are occupying. I am instantly wary. I cautiously sniff underneath my left arm pit.
Nope
. No smell. I sigh with relief. I am calm, cool, and collected. I feel safe. I just know he will keep me safe. I wouldn’t trust anyone else with my life.

“Okay, when the suspect enters our visual field, keep calm. We are just going to watch for now. Have your weapon trained on him, but don’t shoot.” His soft lips press against my ear as he murmurs to me, his breath tickling my skin while he reiterates. “I repeat, do NOT shoot.”

I nod with acknowledgement of his instructions. He is my senior officer, my commander in chief. I do whatever he tells me to do.

“Here he is!” he whispers animatedly in my ear, his words causing my neck to prickle with excitement. My first stake-out! I can hardly believe it! I hold my gun and attempt to keep my hand steady.

“Follow my lead. Don’t do
anything
unless I tell you to.”

Still crouched down, he creeps closer to the edge, his Glock semi-automatic perched on the ledge of the window. I follow suit, leaning my weapon next to his.

He seems startled by my move and stares at me, but a smile quickly creeps onto his face, causing my heart to flutter. That smile melts me every time. He removes one hand from his Glock and places it over mine, squeezing my trembling fingers. “Don’t be nervous,” he tells me in a gentle voice. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I know. You never let anything happen to me…”

“That’s right,” he says proudly. “Remember in the cabin that night? I kept you safe. I saved you and Allie.”

“Well, it was actually Sean that saved us.” I bite my lip. I can’t believe I just said that.

But Jason doesn’t have time to react to my statement. Instead, his head whips around as the suspect is now approaching the area where we are hiding. He leaps to his feet; his weapon clenched in his hands as splintering gun fire suddenly erupts all around us. Jason recoils as he is hit in the right shoulder, dropping his gun as blood instantly oozes from the gaping wound.

“Fire, Amy! Fire your weapon!” he screams at me as he grabs at his shoulder.

I lift my gun; my eye trained on the suspect as my finger grips the trigger. I am shaking but I know I need to do this-

“Amy! Do I have any clean pants?”

I am rattled from my scintillating dream by Roger shaking my body. He is standing over the bed, stark naked with what’s left of his hair dripping onto my pillow. And I mean the hair on his head for all you sickos out there.

“Huh? What?” I ask, groggy from being unceremoniously awaken at such a God awful hour. I rub my bleary eyes and strain to read the angry red numbers on the clock on my nightstand. They are dancing around, taunting me to dare to read them.

Shit. I can’t see! Where are my glasses?
I begin to feel around blindly, searching for the reading glasses I swear I placed there last night.

“My pants! I need khakis for today!” Roger is hopping up and down as he does when he is agitated. I reach across the bed to bring the clock closer to my face and nearly puke as I read the glowing red numbers.
6:45. Oh crap! I’m late!

I leap from the bed, nearly knocking my husband over in the process. My body slams into his fleshy middle, his semi erect…uh, you know… poking me in the left boob.

“Jesus Christ, Roger! Put on some pants!” I yelp, rubbing my offended breast as if he has stabbed me through the heart.
Doesn’t that thing ever take a break?

I peel off my flannel pajama bottoms and toss them into my hamper. Locating the bra that I wore yesterday, I quickly wriggle out of my oversized tee shirt that advertises one of my kids’ schools with a happy faced tiger (like seriously, would a tiger ever smile?) and fasten the bra quickly while covering myself up. I don’t want Roger to think I’m purposely trying to turn him on.

“I don’t
have
pants, Amy!” I hurriedly swing open the closet door and nearly smack him in the head in the process. “That’s why I was waking you up!”

I spin on my heel to face him. “Wait a minute. You weren’t waking me up because you knew I needed to get up? You were waking me up because
you
need
pants
?”

Roger stares at me sheepishly. “Uh, yeah. I didn’t know you had to get up.”

“How did you
not
know I had to get up, Roger?” I ask as I turn away and dig through the closet, searching for a top that is not completely stretched out. “I’ve been talking about this all weekend! Reminding you! Reminding the kids!”

Oh my God! Of all days to sleep late! What the hell were you thinking, Amy? Why didn’t you set the alarm?
I am silently admonishing myself while I rummage through my measly wardrobe.
Well, probably because you were expecting Roger to wake you up, like any good husband would. He knew how important this was to you!

I pull several shirts off the hangers and toss them on the bed. As I pluck through the pile, I disregard each item for one reason or another. Mostly they have holes, stains, or the neck is stretched out from Evan pawing at me to get to my boobs. (Or Roger).

I stare at my favorite green short sleeve shirt and visually inspect it for pit stains. They are there, but minimal compared to the rest of my attire. I am trying to remember what the temperature is going to be and I recall that it will be unseasonably cool. At least I won’t sweat any more. I really don’t have time to drag myself up to the attic and dig into my bin of winter clothes right now. Hell, I don’t even have time to shower.

As I pull on the shirt, I realize this is thinner material than I thought it was and definitely not appropriate attire for the third week of September. I poke my head back into the closet.
Maybe I have a black sweater in here somewhere to cover this…

I come up empty handed and turn from the closet to find Roger still standing there. Naked. And apparently he
has
gotten the wrong idea from me getting dressed in front of him. Well, at least one of his body parts has. “Holy crap!” I yelp as I clutch my chest. “You scared me! I didn’t realize you were still standing there!”

“I still don’t have pants!” he accuses. “What am I going to do about pants?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know what to tell you, Roger. Maybe if you woke me up on time, I would be able to help you out with this situation, but since I am now late and still have to get
four
kids ready for school, I’m not going to be able to assist you in that department since you are a big boy. Could you
please
put some underwear on at least?” I avert my eyes from his happy package and pull a pair of my own pants off the hanger. They are slightly wrinkled and extra snug in the waist (which causes them to leave an indentation in my flesh that takes two days to go away) but I don’t have time to iron my favorite dress pants. These will have to do.

“Well, how was I supposed to know you needed to get up at a certain time? You didn’t tell me what time you had to get up!” Roger growls as he finally lumbers toward his dresser to retrieve a pair of underwear.

“How was I supposed to know
you
needed pants? Did you mention this, I don’t know,
yesterday
? Do I look like a freaking mind reader to you?” I counter as I pull on my own pants.
Ugh...this damn zipper is not going to give, is it?
I flop onto my back on my bed and tug at the zipper, forcing it past its natural limitations. “God damn it!” I find myself shouting as I struggle with my clothing.

“But you always know when I need pants,” Roger whines.

“Why is everyone yelling?”

My head whips toward the door. Standing in the doorway of our bedroom is my eleven year old daughter, Lexie, scratching her matted dirty blonde hair (aka “rat’s nest”) and yawning.

“Jesus, Lex! I don’t have any pants!” Roger shouts as he rips the pillow off of the bed in an effort to hide his aforementioned package.

“Lexie! What are you doing in here? Wasn’t the door closed?”

“And locked,” she adds proudly.

“You picked the lock?” I stare at her, mouth hanging open incredulously.

“Yup!” She bobs her head up and down as if she just told me she got an A on a math test or something. I steer her out of the bedroom before she is traumatized for life and needs therapy. I can’t afford another kid in therapy. Therapy is very expensive, as I have come to discover in the last year.

“Where did you learn-” I am about to ask when my older daughter Allie comes stomping out of her bedroom, slamming the door angrily in her wake. Her dark black hair is piled messily on top of her head, indicating to me that she has also overslept. She usually flat irons her naturally wavy hair in the morning. Muttering disgustedly to herself, she pulls on a red and black school hoodie and sweeps past us in the hall, not even acknowledging our presence.

I don’t need to finish my sentence. I now know
exactly
where Lexie learned her lock picking skills. At least they were bonding. They usually avoid each other like the plague, unless the opportunity to sling insults presents itself.

“Good morning, Allie!” I call out cheerfully, knowing full well I am going to receive nothing more than a grunt in return.

Oh wait, no!
Allie whirls around and offers me her signature death ray stare.
Ooo! I’ve graduated to the most hated person in her life today! How fun! It’s not even 7:00 in the morning.

“Morning, Allie!” Lexie chirps, despite the fact that she too is going to receive a look of hatred and possibly a few choice words. In fact, I think that’s
why
she does it.

Allie actually ignores her sister as she storms down the stairs, heading unhappily toward the kitchen. And then, she proceeds to shriek.

Without a second thought, I dash down the stairs, Lexie hot on my trail. Roger apparently still does not have pants on, so he stays put.

Fantastic. We could have an axe murder butchering our daughter in the kitchen and Roger would still be wandering around the bedroom looking for a pair of khakis. Some protector he is.

I screech to a halt as I enter the kitchen, my head spinning frantically, searching for the source of my teenager’s distress. From past experience I know it could be anything from a hangnail to a mobster/DEA agent holding her at knife point. Oh yeah, that actually happened.

Last October, Allie and I had the unfortunate experience of stumbling upon the body of our elderly neighbor (it doesn’t matter that the reason we stumbled upon the body was because I was snooping…) Turns out she was killed by her husband, who was not really her husband but a leader of a neighborhood drug ring, posing as a DEA agent. Or he actually was…a DEA agent, not her husband, but he…oh, never mind. Her son, Jason, who was also an undercover DEA agent, whisked Allie and me off to a remote mountain top location where we ended up hiding out with the killer and his accomplice for a few days until he tried to kill Jason. Things got really sticky, and long story short, Allie found herself with the killer’s arm around her neck and a knife pressed to her throat until our neighbor’s grandson, who was also DEA agent Jason’s adopted son, smacked him in the head with a frying pan. Which is why I tend to take Allie’s screams seriously.

In this case, however, I’ve made an error in judgment. The cause of Allie’s scream is not a murderer or even anything to be excited about. In fact, it’s par for the course in our house. Allie is standing in the middle of the kitchen pointing accusingly at the breakfast nook. “Oh my
GOD
, Mother! What is he doing?”

My eyes follow her pointing finger toward the nook. There sits three year old Evan. On the breakfast nook.  With a bowl of Cheerios. And a container of orange juice lying haphazardly on the floor. And he’s naked. Can’t forget naked. Evan is a big fan of naked.

“Evan!” I storm over to my youngest child and scoop him off the counter. He is a sticky mess since he is sitting in a puddle of orange juice.

“Breakfast!” he tells me happily as he waves the spoon in the air. “I make breakfast Mama! All by myself!”

“Oh Evan,” I sigh. “You should have asked Mommy for help.” I cringe as I stare at the puddle that I am now tromping through. My sock is soaking wet. I don’t have time to give Evan a bath. Hell, I don’t have time to give
myself
a bath, let alone a toddler who goes absolutely apeshit when you try to dunk him in water. He throws out all of his limbs and hovers over the tub like a cat as we try to submerge him. In fact, it’s actually
easier
to give the cat a bath. And the last time I attempted that, I lost an eyebrow and nearly severed a finger.

No. There is no way I am dealing with this now. I will just drop him off at my sister Beth’s house covered in orange juice. She won’t be able to resist. She will
definitely
try to give him a bath.