Colder, Darker, Harder

By Tommy Smith

Onetime aspiring guitarist/writer super-couple Sid and Molly are getting a little too long in the tooth to be starving artists. They find a wild young woman passed out on their steps. She’s relieved to have found them in time. They don't know it. But they’re in grave danger. And she’s just the one to pull them out of the burning building.

There’s no ticking time bomb, complicated murder plot, or, god forbid, leaky water heater. But there is something ominous on the horizon. And Sid and Molly are going to be rescued whether they like it or not.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tommy Smith
• Release date: Jan 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301383108

Tommy Smith

Though my degree is in 3D design, for video games and animation, I found that neither games or animation is worth much without a good story. So from school I would have to say that the draw of story telling was the biggest thing that I came out of college with; and I look forward to seeing where all the characters take me and the stories in the future.

Book preview

Colder, Darker, Harder

By Tommy Smith

Copyright 2012 Tommy Smith

Smashwords Edition

Cover art by Meghan Hogan

Cover color and text design by Raighne Hogan

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is dedicated to Paul Newman, Kirby Puckett, and my tv twin Daniel Faraday. Everyone else can go to hell. Except my mother. She’s wonderful.

Introduction

I’m throwing up now, and I’ll be throwing up long after you get to the end of this tallest of tall tales. That’s just the way it is. Think of it as a ground rule. Or as a euphemism for something even more disgusting. Or as a fifty dollar bill. Or as whatever it will take to get you through the next thousand pages of this miserable excuse for a book. From the bottom of my stomach, to the top of my throat, with your flabby cheeks squeezed firmly in my boney hands, dear reader, I promise not to let the filthy origins of my highly-contagious disease stain any part of your long white wedding dress. I couldn’t. Really, I couldn’t. You see, I’m a man of immaculate taste.

Even now, as I bend forth and extend my opera-gloved hands to scoop up the sloppy pool of my lunch that somehow glanced off the side of the toilet bowl, I’m fully dressed, from head to toe, in fancy eveningwear, lest a certain famous acquaintance, whom I’ll from now on refer to as a close friend, phones in an emergency dinner for two in the confines of a lonely apartment.

(Lady Gaga, midnight is much too late for an oldster like me with a failing organ, but I won’t hold it against you. But only because of that claw dance. It gets me every time. It really does. Just don’t get any ideas. I’m practically married. And small point, I know, but I don’t think my dick works.)

I see how it is, bitter reader. You have suddenly soured on me and are demanding a Reader’s Digest version before you’ll look at anything over a paragraph with more than just a cursory glance. Where is the trust these days? Well, I’m nothing if not a crowd-pleaser. So here goes.

The story you’re about sneak in through the back door while your parents are asleep (dead, though they are, I’m well aware) concerns a delicate matter, best kept quiet. So I’m only going to say this once, at a whisper, in a wind tunnel.

This book is about people I never knew but often woke up, in a cold sweat, thinking I did.

Blessed reader, don’t let my nightmare be yours.

Carry on.

Chapter 1

A couple was reminiscing about their twenties at a quiet bar because the movie they had just seen, an uplifting coming-of-age flick, made them feel all warm and fuzzy inside. The drink they had planned on having before heading home turned into two, then three, and then four as they got caught up in the excitement of the way it used to be.

Embarrassing old haircuts came up. Memorable parties were revisited. Funny stories about forgotten faces got a few laughs and knowing smiles. They were having a swell time until a mention of old dreams and missed opportunities killed the mood.

Sid had shown promise as a lead guitarist, touring the country a number of times with a few bands that broke up after modest success.

Molly had seemed destined to make it big after becoming something of a school celebrity when a story she wrote for a creative writing class appeared in a notable fiction magazine, but as the rejection letters piled up, it was beginning to look like she had one-hit wonder written all over her.

The magical times of their twenties had given way to the uncertain times of their thirties. Failed careers in the fine arts and dwindling bank accounts had brought school back into the mix. Teaching college, the safety valve for failed artists, had emerged as their most realistic option. It was one of many that they had kicked around over the past month at a big house that belonged to a rich friend who seemed to own a little property everywhere. They felt somewhat guilty about not paying rent, but it was so nice to be far away from anybody they knew that it was easy to overlook any reservations they had.

It was pouring out when they left the bar. Sid was being a turd about having to walk home in the rain.

Molly wanted to know if she was the girl in the relationship. A little rain was good for you. Didn’t he know that? At minimum, it was an aphrodisiac. She was almost positive.

She slid halfway down a grassy hill on her belly, splashing to a stop. He stayed on the road, electing to wait out the rain in a nearby bus shelter.

He was singing quietly when she joined him. She let the writer in her take over, pointing out in glowing detail how beautiful the water was as it rose up out of the puddles with each raindrop. She said it looked like a million see-through crowns appearing and disappearing all over the road. She put her wet head on his shoulder and asked what he was thinking about.

He told her about the song he had been singing, casually throwing it out there as a symbol of his love for her.

That brought a smile to her face that she tried to hide, turning her head this way and that. She wondered if he was going to miss being on stage.

He said there was nothing quite like making a crowd go wild. Jesus, he was getting chills all over just thinking about it. It was something else, all right.

She said he must really like her then.

He said he didn’t realize it was even a question.

She wondered why he had never sung in a band before. What she meant was, he had such a good voice. Why not use it? She wrung out her shirt as she waited for him to say something. It was a tiny black baby doll shirt with the word punk on it in big white letters.

He took an unusual interest in her arms, lifting them up and turning them over. He asked if they worked and had her do a few cat woman waves just to be on the safe side.

Snuggling against him and purring in his ear, she gently pressed him to tell her what she wanted to know.

He said he didn’t feel like going into it.

She said he could tell her anything.

He said that was nice.

That set her off. God, she really hated his guts sometimes. It would be as sweet as a pixie stick if every once in a blue moon he would be a