Push Comes to Shove

Dear Reader:

Thanks for picking up a copy of
Push Comes to Shove
, a novel that I am confident that you will enjoy. Oasis has once again done a phenomenal job of creating relatable characters and an unforgettable storyline. Life can be hard, especially in today’s recession, and many people become desperate to make ends meet.
Push Comes to Shove
examines the parallel lives of two men struggling to survive: GP and Miles.

GP and Kitchie have two children and a field of dreams. GP is a talented artist peddling his “soon-to-be-famous” cartoon character on T-shirts until his big break comes along. Unfortunately, that doesn’t quite cut it when it comes to paying bills so he walks a thin line between legal and illegal activities. Then a single incident sets off a butterfly effect that ends up leaving him and his wife homeless, childless, and hopeless.

Miles has an entirely different money problem that leaves him owing a lot of cash to the wrong person. Idle threats of physical harm are followed up with real tragedy once Miles fails to come up with the cash. Miles decides that he has nothing else to live for…except revenge.

Two men from the same world, yet perfect strangers, end up crossing paths in the ultimate train wreck in life. You will not believe what happens when both of them are shoved a little too far.

As always, thanks for supporting Oasis and the other authors that I publish under Strebor Books International. We try our best to bring you the future in publishing today with cutting-edge, risk-taking titles that spark thought, conversation, and controversy.

If you would like to join my email list, please send a blank email to [email protected]. You can also find me on Facebook, on Twitter at “PlanetZane” or join my online social network at
www.PlanetZane.org
. My personal email is [email protected] and my personal web site is
www.eroticanoir.com
.

Blessings,

Zane

Publisher

Strebor Books International

www.simonandschuster.com
/streborbooks

A
LSO BY
O
ASIS
Duplicity

Strebor Books

P.O. Box 6505

Largo, MD 20792

http://www.streborbooks.com
www.SimonandSchuster.com

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

© 2010 by Oasis

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means whatsoever. For information address Strebor Books, P.O. Box 6505, Largo, MD 20792.

ISBN 978-1-59309-299-3

ISBN 978-1-4391-8402-8 (ebook)

LCCN 2010940494

First Strebor Books trade paperback edition March 2011

Cover design:
www.mariondesigns.com

Cover photograph: © Keith Saunders/Marion Designs

Edited by Docuversion

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Manufactured in the United States of America

The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at
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.

For JaVenna…
Because of you, I’m the luckiest guy on the planet
.

G
reg Patterson hung in the nude from a vaulted ceiling by his young wrists. His 110-pound body was no match against the leather restraints. He wriggled and rocked himself past the brink of exhaustion. There was nothing else he could do now but wait.

He’d lost track of time, hanging there in the cold dark. He wanted to relieve himself, but pissing on Mr. Reynolds’s floor wasn’t an option. It would only make matters worse.

Footsteps fell in the hall right outside of the door. Greg hated this part with passion, but at least…at least it was almost over.

The tarnished doorknob spun left.

He braced himself.

The group home’s disciplinarian, Mr. Reynolds, stood in the entrance with a bucket of sudsy water in one hand. His widespread body covered the majority of the doorjamb. “You refuse to learn your lesson.”

“I won’t steal again. This time I…I promise.” He gestured
no
with worry.

“Foolhardy boy, you’ve made that meaningless promise since you learned how to talk.” He dowsed the frail boy with the sudsy water. “A little incentive will keep you focused. You should really keep your hands off things that don’t belong to you.” He wrapped the ends of a heavy-duty extension cord around his bone-colored hand. “You’ll learn one way or the other.”

“Mr. Reynolds, please don’t beat me this time.” Greg clamped
his burning eyes shut, hoping the soap would stay out. “I needed the art supplies for school. Untie me and…and I’ll take them back right now.”

“After I give you an ass cutting for being a habitual rule violator.” He hiked his gravy-stained sleeves past his pudgy elbows and stood behind the boy.

Greg tensed, anticipating the first blow.

Mr. Reynolds raised his arm and swung the cord with a batter’s determination. “If I could beat the color off of you, I would.”

The cord sounded like thunder when it cracked against Greg’s brown skin.

“Aargh…no more! I’m sorry, Mr. Reynolds.” Greg stiffened all over. “Please, no more. I won’t do it again. I’m sorry.”

“You
are
sorry, aren’t you?”

The cord slapped him once more, this time breaking the skin on his back.

“You’re a piece of stinky shit, and that’s all you’ll ever be is shit.”

Thunder struck again.

Greg yelled out so loud, he threatened to short out his vocal box.

“You’re a bum, Greg.” He switched hands and swung from a different approach. “That’s all you’ll ever be. Why do you think you’ve been here all these years? Nobody wants a bum; not even your mother.”

Mr. Reynolds had lashed Greg until his arm was tired. He went into the hall and looked at his aged yes-man. “Untie him. Lock the thieving bastard up until his wounds heal. And get rid of those drawings he’s always wasting time on.”

“Right away, Mr. Reynolds.”

G
P decided that tonight his family would eat good for a change. He eased the Renault Alliance to the order box; it stuttered and backfired every inch of the way.

“Welcome to Wendy’s. May I take your order?”

He shut the car off so that he could hear. “Excuse me…uh, could you run that by me again?” He could hear the cashier suck her teeth through the speaker, as if she was annoyed.

“Good evening, how may I help you?”

“Gimme six number sevens with large fries…and extra cheese. Make the sodas orange, no ice.” He thought about how Kitchie loved Dave’s chicken. “Uh, let me get two spicy chicken sandwiches and four baked potatoes with cheese. I guess that’ll be cool.”

“Would you like to try our apple turnovers this evening?”

Fuck it
. “Yeah, why not? Gimme six and six large chocolate Frosties.” He waited a few seconds for her response.

“That’ll be forty-eight twenty-three at the pickup window. Thank you for choosing Wendy’s.”

GP tried to start the Renault. “Come on, baby, crank up for Daddy.” The engine strained but wouldn’t catch. He pumped the gas and rubbed the dashboard. “Come on, girl. I need you now more than ever.”

He turned the key again. The engine backfired, then came to life. With three vehicles in front of GP, his order would be ready in a matter of minutes.

His car sounded like a Harley Davidson outside of the pickup window. An attractive cashier rolled her cat-like eyes and shook
her head.
Derelict
. She turned her lip up with attitude as she passed him three large bags and two drink-holder trays.

“That’s forty-eight twenty-three.” She smirked and stared at GP.

GP secured the drinks on the front passenger seat, then stomped the gas pedal. The Renault backfired.

The cashier all but jumped out of her skin.

With the power-steering pump broken, it was a difficult task for GP to make the sharp left turn. He jerked and tugged the rebellious steering wheel until he yanked the car onto Euclid Avenue.

He stuck a fry in his mouth and smiled. GP knew that, on this April Fool’s Day, he would be the cause of three beautiful smiles.

Four city blocks away from his home, the Renault had had enough. The engine light came on right before the car stalled.

“Come on, baby, I thought you loved me.” He coasted to the curb. He tried to restart the engine but it refused; it only made a clicking sound.

If he started his journey on foot now, he would make it home long before the food was cold. With a bag between his teeth and two in his hand, he reached for the door handle but hesitated when he saw a Cleveland police car pull up behind him.

“Fuck me!” he mumbled, then lowered the window with a pair of vise grips.
Damn cashier could’ve let me slide. Ignorant chickenhead didn’t have to call the cops
.