Reasons to Leave (Reasons #1) (38 page)

His jaw was clenched. “I. Need. To. Go.” Each word was uttered in a staccato rhythm.

She stepped back. “B-but, you’ll be back? I mean…when you say you need to go…you just mean for a drive…or for…for some air…don’t you? And there’s your dad’s funeral…and Dillon.”

His nostrils flared and he stared angrily at her, running his hand through his hair. “I already said I can’t fucking
talk
about this now. Just leave it, Stevie, for fuck’s sake. Why do you always have to push things?”

Tears welled in her eyes, and she bit back a sob. “I’m not pushing things, Jason. You’re scaring me. Just tell me the truth. Are you running again? After you said you wouldn’t to Dillon…and to me for that matter…is that what’s happening here? I know…I know we agreed that you and I were temporary, but I don’t want you to just leave me now without explanation. Not again. I don’t think that would be very fair of you.”

He snorted. “Think whatever you like. At this moment in time, I don’t really care. The world doesn’t fucking revolve around you. All right? It’s. Not. All. About. You!” he shouted pointing at her.

Her eyes overflowed with angry and confused tears. She watched helplessly as he pulled his helmet on, swung his leg over the bike, started the engine, and sped off up the street and out of sight without looking back once.

“Jason!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Coming February 2015

Reasons to Stay

Prologue

Stevie observed Jason as he read, his face a confused mask. The line between his brows deepened. What the hell was in that letter? He peered down at the envelope, pulled out a photo, and stared at it for a long while. From where Stevie was sitting, she leaned forward and could see that it was a photo of Jason with another girl. Judging by his fresh-faced appearance in the picture, it must have been taken just before he disappeared. Handsome eighteen-year-old Jason. The man she had loved so deeply.

She touched his leg. “Jason? Are you okay?” No reply. “Jason? Who’s that girl in the photo with you?” Still nothing. Panic rose within her and she nudged him. “Jason!” She raised her voice this time causing him to look up.

“What?” he snapped. His face had paled. Drained of all colour. But in his narrowed eyes she saw anger. And maybe a little fear.

“What’s in the letter?”

“Sorry? Oh…it’s...” His shook his head and looked back at the letter and the photograph again. His eyes widened. He was clearly horrified at the contents. He opened and closed his mouth as if searching for the right words. Disbelief washed over his features. He stood slowly as if in a trance like state. “I’ve…I need…I need some air.” He almost staggered toward the door, clutching the papers and photograph in his grip.

Stevie stood too and followed. Something was very wrong. “Are you all right? You’re worrying me.” She followed him down the stairs and watched as he pulled on his leather jacket, shoved the scrunched up letter and photograph into the inside pocket, and walked out of the front door. “Jason, for goodness sake, will you
please
tell me what was in the letter? And who was that girl in the photo with you? Please!”

He stopped and turned to face her. “I…I can’t do this now. I need to go. I need some time to think… I can’t talk…not now. I need to go… Please let me go.”

“What do you mean you need to go? Go where? What the hell’s going on, Jason? Talk to me!” Her chest heaved, and she felt tears needle the back of her eyes.

Whatever was in that letter had changed him. It was like someone had flicked a switch. Loving, sweet, playful Jason had gone. The menacing mask descended once again. Jason from the first days in Scotland was back. He stalked toward her with an angry determination and leaned in until his face was only inches from hers.

His jaw was clenched. “I. Need. To. Go.” Each word was uttered in a staccato rhythm.

She automatically stepped back. “B-but you’ll be back? I mean…when you say you need to go, you mean for a drive…or for…for some air…don’t you? And there’s your dad’s funeral…and Dillon.”

His nostrils flared, and he stared blankly at her. “I already said I can’t fucking talk about this now. Just leave it, for fuck’s sake. Why do you always have to push things?”

Tears welled in her eyes, and she bit back a sob. “I’m not pushing things. You’re scaring me. Just tell me the truth… Are you running again? After you said you wouldn’t to Dillon…and to me for that matter. Is that what’s happening here? I know we agreed that you and I were temporary, but I don’t want you to leave without explanation. Not again. I don’t think that would be very fair of you.”

He snorted. “Think whatever you like. At this moment in time, I don’t really care. The world doesn’t fucking revolve around you. All right? It’s. Not. All. About. You!” he shouted, pointing at her.

Her eyes overflowed with angry and confused tears, and she watched helplessly as he pulled his helmet on, swung his leg over the bike, started the engine, and sped off up the street and out of sight without looking back once.

“Jason!”

About The Author

Lisa is happily married to her soul-mate and they have a daughter and two crazy dogs. She especially enjoys being creative and now writes almost full time.

In 2012 Lisa and her family relocated from England to their beloved Scotland; a place of happy holidays and memories for them. Her new location now features in all of her books.

Writing has always been something Lisa has enjoyed, although in the past it has centered on poetry and song lyrics. Some of which appear in her stories.

Since she started writing in 2012 she has loved every minute of becoming a published author.

5 Prince Publishing is proud to present
Wings
by Pete Abela. Please enjoy this excerpt. You can find this book and many more on the 5 Prince Publishing site at
www.5princebooks.com

Wings

By

Pete Abela

1:

The nose of the Cessna swung around, straightening as it lined up with the runway. Scott leaned forward, attempting to judge the distance to the airport. He was concentrating fiercely; after all, this was the first time he’d tried a landing without someone by his side giving him directions.

He eased back the throttle and adjusted the flaps. A gust of wind caught the plane and the right wing rose as the left side dropped. He looked down at the instruments and adjusted the rudder, restoring the aircraft to level flight.

When he looked up again, he was shocked to see how rapidly the runway had come closer in the few seconds required to level the plane. “Too high,” he muttered to himself, as he pushed the throttle forward, dropping the nose toward the ground. The airspeed indicator increased as the altimeter – which showed his height – dropped. He looked up again, and realised his mistake. “Too low,” he groaned as he pulled the control stick back, raising the nose. “And too fast,” he realised as the ground rushed toward him.

He was conscious that he had made a crazy, lurching descent and was still travelling too fast. He’d also dropped too far and was now lower than the ideal flight path, skimming just above the ground, well short of the runway. He thought about his options: Pull up and go around? Or try to land it anyway?

He decided to fly another circuit and make a new approach when his mother’s authoritative voice interrupted his thoughts. “We’re going to Grandma and Grandad’s place, so get off the computer, Scott. Now.”

Exasperated, Scott pushed the throttle forward and dropped towards the ground. He realised he was approaching too quickly, but he hung onto the controls grimly. A splintering, tearing sound came from the speakers and a jagged line crossed the screen.

He slammed the joystick down. Without the interruption he was sure he could have made his first successful Flight Simulator landing. He got up from his chair and trudged towards the garage, his mind replaying the sequence of events, trying to work out what he’d do differently next time.

Scott squeezed into the car with his older brother and sister. Fourteen years old, he was short and slim, with an olive, babyish face yet to be shaped by puberty. He had close-cropped, dark hair, cut in the style of the character, Maverick, from his favourite movie,
Top Gun
.

The drive to his grandparent’s house took five minutes, leaving Scott little time to decide how to approach his next landing. When they arrived, he jumped out of the car with his siblings and followed his mother, Bronwyn, to the front door. Despite the fact she’d borne three children and was now middle-aged, she was still slim, a feature accentuated by her above average height. She rang the doorbell.

Walt opened the door quietly, and looked out at his daughter Bronwyn and her brood of teenagers. “I’m afraid your Mum is having one of her bad days today, love,” he whispered.

“Is she up for a visit?” asked Bronwyn.

Walt pondered the question for a moment. “She’s in bed. She’d probably like to see you. How about I take the children out the back and you duck inside for a little bit. That’ll give me a break too.”

Bronwyn nodded, which caused her blonde hair to bounce. “Kids, you go down the side there and into the backyard. Grandad will be with you in a minute. I’m just going inside to see Grandma.”

Scott and his siblings trooped through the side gate and into the backyard of the old cottage, taking a seat on the back patio. The yard was cluttered, filled with tools and wheelbarrows. Two old sheds, bursting at the seams with the accumulated contents of forty years of Walt’s work as a builder and concreter, leaned wearily in the afternoon sun.

The back door opened with a clatter as Grandad stepped outside. Walt – Walter Johnson to give him his full name – stood almost six feet tall. Despite the fact that he was almost seventy-five years of age, his back was straight and his head was covered with a thick mane of silver hair. He was a strong man, with large rough hands calloused from years of manual labour.

“What have you kids been up to today?” he asked jovially.

“I was playing Flight Simulator,” replied Scott. “I’m getting close to making my first unassisted landing.”

“Flight Simulator, eh?” mused Grandad reflectively. “We never had anything like that when I was a boy.”

Walt was born in the village of Oswaldtwistle in Lancashire, England in 1921. The Great Depression coincided with his formative years and although his family were poor, they were not destitute. His father, Ted, was a labourer, earning twenty-four shillings a week for fifty-six hours of demanding work. To supplement his income, he poached rabbits and sold them at the markets. In a good week, he could catch fifty or sixty rabbits which, when sold for sixpence each, brought in a further twenty-five or thirty shillings a week.

The family consisted of Walt, his parents, a younger brother and two younger sisters. They grew up in the country, two or three miles out of town on the road between Blackburn and Haslingden.

The family home was called Wham Brook Cottage, and was a small double-storey house built with grey granite blocks. Downstairs consisted of a kitchen with a large coal-fired boiler and a living room, whilst there were two bedrooms upstairs. The roof tiles sagged, there was no electricity, and water was obtained from a nearby spring. Despite this, the family enjoyed the country lifestyle and the opportunity to ramble on the moors that surrounded the house.

Winters were harsh, and darkness arrived early, which forced Walt to spend his afternoons inside during the colder months. He didn’t mind this, particularly if he had a good book to keep him company. It was on such a day that Walt was sitting by the fire, head buried in a book, as his mother prepared the evening meal. He was tall for his age and slim, with a serious expression on his narrow face. His hair was uneven, courtesy of his mother’s amateurish attempts to cut it.