WIP Wenesdays: Only The Willing


So of course you all are picking through the pages of The Widowmaker I’ll be mean and tease you with the NEXT book in the Stan Brookshire series… Only The Willing, to be released July 2016.


The anger boiled just below the surface.

Every time it burned stronger than the time before. Each time he had to reign it in just a little harder. He was going to have to stop coming to this side of town if this was the way things were going to be for him.

It hadnt always been this bad, it had started as a mild irritation. Like a buzzing mosquito that you couldnt swat away no matter how hard you tried to get it. Then it became a situation where you couldnt avoid the mosquito and it had started biting at his soul.

The anger and the rage soon followed. He had learned over the years to control it but it always stayed there just below the surface threatening to come forward and take over.

Some days he pitied himself. He thought of himself as a reasonable sort of guy who worked hard, and took care of the business that he had to. He didnt want to be seen as a Dr Jekel Mr Hyde sort of person, with two different people living inside his head. He wanted to be the nice kind person he tried so hard to be.

But the anger lived there just below the surface. There was nothing he could do, nothing anyone could do, to make a difference in stopping the flow of rage that coursed through his body when he was down in the part of town.

He didnt even know why he bothered coming down here anyways, knowing how it affected his mind as it did. But there was a certain comfort in being on this side of the tracks. It was his home for the first decade of his life. Before his mother died. They had live just a few blocks away from the coffee shop where he was currently sitting.

He had spent his first few years of life living in blissful ignorance. He hadnt known what the world around him was really like. He wishes some days that he could go back there. to a time when the people around him, the men that his mother brought home, wiere all his friends and he didnt know any better as to who they really were. How he wished he could go back to when things with his mother and him were happy together.

But instead he was here sitting in the same coffee shop night after night, looking around at the people coming and going. As the nights passed the anger got more and more stornger but he usually made it out of the coffee shop before it got too bad for him to handle.  

There had only been a few times over the years that he had not made it out in time and the anger had taken over. He had been lucky those times. No one had caught on and he had escaped without being caught for the things he had done.


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