September Rain Bk 2, Savor The Days Series

September Rain

For the dreamers, the free
thinkers, artists and creators, the music makers: your sprits make
the world an inspiring place.

Super-duper, enormous
thanks to: Marcos Curiel, Pete Stewart, Ernie Longoria, and Tony
Delocht—the original members of
The
Accident Experiment.
If you had not
given
Sick Love Letter
to the world, this plot may have never found its’ way out of
my head and onto the page.

Cover photo provided
by
morguefile
. Final artwork
by A.R. Rivera

SEPTEMBER
RAIN
By A.R. Rivera

Published by A.R. Rivera

• 2015 A.R. Rivera
  

All Rights reserved.

All characters and events portrayed in this
book are products of the authors’ imagination. Any similarities to
situations, persons living or dead are coincidental and
unintentional, so don’t get your knickers in a twist.

This ebook is for your personal enjoyment and
is not intended for unauthorized copy or resale without express,
written permission from the author.

If you like this book and wish to share it,
THANK YOU, but please, encourage additional purchases from
retailers for other readers. Writing a book takes a lot of time and
effort.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this
author.

Amazon
digital ASIN: B00U32PP28

Createspace Print Edition:
ISBN-13: 978-1512076226

ISBN-10:
1512076228

Smashwords
digital
ISBN: 9781310466618

PRAISE FOR BETWEEN
OCTOBERS

Books Like Breathing'
Blog—5/5 Stars!
...
“I have found yet another author to read ... I really enjoyed
this book. There were some parts that got particularly angsty but I
love that. I found myself really immersed in this one ... I
absolutely loved Rhys and Grace ... I love that we got to see the
whole story of the relationship. Usually in the books I read,
marriage in endgame. It's white noise beyond it. You are left to
assume there is no trouble, no bickering and all is happy sunshine
times ... Some of this book was gutpunchingly angsty but it was so
well done.”

Onlinebookclub.org,
official reviewer, Ashley Claire (4/4 stars!)
... “Lovers of both thriller and romance will enjoy
Between Octobers
. I rate
this book
4 out of 4 stars
and will happily be reading the next book in the
series. ... I went into this book thinking it was going to be a
run-of-the-mill thriller. I was pleasantly surprised when the book
began seamlessly alternating between suspense and love story. I
honestly don't know that I've ever read another book like it. Just
when I was getting the warm fuzzies from the developing
relationship, Rivera switches back to Grace’s current danger and I
found myself instantly on edge again. This book also comes fully
equipped with an ending that I did not see coming, which is my
favorite kind of ending!”

Contents

“The creative person is
both, more primitive and more cultivated, more destructive, a lot
madder, and a lot saner than the average person.”

—Frank X. Barron

1

—
Angel

There is a chain around my waist
that’s connected to another chain, which loops through the
handcuffs on my wrists. Those chains are connected to a third which
links to a fourth that holds the cuffs around my ankles.

I can barely walk. I have to take tiny
steps, shuffling my feet as fast as I can with the shackles pulled
taught. I can move my arms a little bit but not really enough to do
anything, like wipe my nose. I have to lean down to push my hair
away from my face and it always falls right back.

This morning marks the first day of my
latest case review. Unlike many other inmates, though, I’m not
hoping this little charade leads to parole.

For me, there is only one way out of
this place and it’s in a bag. And it won’t be much longer. I’m just
going through the motions: I’ll say what I need to, clear my
conscience.

When the review is over, I’ll find a
way to get to Jake. I’ll be with him again.

Both of the guards—one at each of my
elbows—halt their marching and then I hear her voice. The witch
that used to call herself my best friend: Avery
Campbell.

As if I haven’t got enough
problems.

She’s standing directly in front of
me. I make a point of ignoring her, drawing my eyes from the wide
tiled floor to the guard beside me. The guard’s looking straight
ahead, not at Avery, but beyond her. If I react the way I want—wrap
my hands around her throat and squeeze until every last bit of air
is gone—then I’d never get into the interview room and I’d never be
able to tell anyone what a liar, a fraud, and a phony she is.
Besides, ignoring Avery is like calling an anorexic “fat.” It’s the
worst possible thing I could do.

The corridor we’re standing in erupts
with a crackling buzz. The grating squeak of metal hinges echoes. A
heavy door on my right swings open.

A small breeze blows as
Avery turns on her heel. Her long black hair sways down her back as
she struts back up the corridor, shouting to everyone that I’m the
idiot, that she’s the one who really knows the truth, and she
better get
her
time in
my
interview.

Like hell she
will
, I vow, staring daggers into her back
until a flickering light draws my attention away. It’s coming from
the meeting room, just beyond the noisy doorway. I can tell from
out here that the size of the room is claustrophobia
inducing.

My gut clenches at the sight of a
microphone, set atop a single table, centered in the small room.
Surrounding the table are four metal framed chairs. Each seat is
covered by a worn-looking gray, woolen material.

The first guard watches me as if at
any moment I’ll come at him with a shiv. The second guard remarks
about one of the overhead fluorescents, pointing to the flickering
light. I’m careful to remain docile while they remove my cuffs from
the chain at my waist and affix them to my chair.

On the other side of the table,
propped against the soft blue wall, sets a pair of big black
cameras with silent, eye-like lenses. They’re hinged upon two sets
of solid legs waiting for me to spill my guts—one more time, for
posterity. But I have to wait for the ears; the judge and jury
which will most likely be embodied in two carefully selected
assholes, wearing the requisite suits.

My fingers fidget over the
woolen material covering the thin arms of the chair. Pinching at
miniscule balls of fluff, I wait for the others filing into the
room to settle down. There are three: a man, a woman, and my
lawyer—
Something
Brandon
, who looks like a man, but seems
genderless. Slowly stripping the lint away, I can just make out the
faint snap of each thin fiber as it stretches and breaks and floats
lazily down to the faded green floor.

My gaze wanders towards the door as it
closes and I can’t help but think of it as some kind of metaphor.
For half a bitter second, I swear Avery’s penetrating eyes are
back, sneaking a peek through the small window over the handle.
Those bright green orbs, so full of curiosity and malice, churn my
stomach and I’m glad I skipped breakfast.

“I hate her.” I don’t mean to mumble
the thought and bite down on the tip of my tongue. Squeezing my
eyes shut, I count to three then check the small window again.
Nothing.

Looking around, I’m glad to see that
no one seemed to notice my slip.

Once everyone has settled in, Mister
Brandon, who’s taken a seat at my left side, prompts me to begin. I
draw a deep breath, ignoring my dry mouth, trying to focus on this
oration. But the microphone I’m staring at looms too large. I study
the black meshed end pointing directly at me; its’ flat top and
rounded edges.

“My name is Angel Patel—” I manage to
squeak before my voice cuts out, choked by the arid lump in my
throat.

“Take your time.” My gaze shifts up to
follow a soft voice to the other side of the wide table. It floats
from the plain woman sitting directly across from me. Staring back,
she folds her hands over her lap. Her hair is pulled back in an
unreasonably tight bun: the type that promises to make her hair
line recede. The lenses of her glasses are stern rectangles that
remind me of a high school librarian. The flat brown eyes behind
them do not say anything.

A man on her left adjusts one of the
two black lenses pointing at me—the eyes, coming into focus. The
microphone recording us is making a memory—it will replay
everything later on. The people in here are all ears—waiting,
listening for information. I cannot help but think that this small
room with its’ azure walls is like a skull, keeping us inside. I am
the brain—dictating the instructions and operating on another
level. I am above them all, but somehow still under
authority.