Match to the Heart: A Novel of Love, Angels and Reincarnation

By Ken Luber

When Michael "Traine" Trainier, a low-life drug dealer, dodges the bullets of LA thugs, he runs into the arms of Risa, a tough, beautiful angel who takes him on a journey just as deadly. But the novice angel soon discovers that the journey is as much a challenge for her as it is for him. Of all her past lives, this is the one love she has never forgotten.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ken Luber
• Release date: Jul 11, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452372242

Ken Luber

I just published my new, award-winning novel "The Sun Jumpers"... and just completed the book and lyrics for the musical, "Esperanza: The Musical of Hope", with composer Saverio Rapezzi.

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MATCH TO THE HEART

A NOVEL OF LOVE, ANGELS AND REINCARNATION

by Ken Luber

* * * * *

Smashwords Edition

Match to the Heart

Copyright © 2009 Ken Luber

This book is available in print.

www.matchtotheheart.com

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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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 person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Natalie Bates, my wonderfully talented teacher and writer.

John Pat Anderson, exacting insightful critic, and friend.

Rochelle and Sandra, my sisters, for their loving encouragement.

Kathy, my wife, for her divine patience and support.

Uri and Jonah, my sons, for believing in me.

And to my readers, Lissa Claussen, Amy Walker and Don Lenik, who took the time to care.

Thank you.

*****

CHAPTER 1

THE RAINBOW INN

He knew exactly how close to death he’d come. He walked past candlelit tables and took a seat at one end of the counter. From there he had a clear view of the front doors. Traine lit a cigarette and studied the menu. He felt a pair of eyes close by, behind him. His ability to know when people were watching him had sharpened during his years in the drug trade. Then he turned to the tall waitress with the hospitality smile.

Stuffed peppers is the special.

He could see something was wrong. What?

I always get it confused, she said, flapping her hands. "You say, stuffed peppers are, but you say the special is. So is it the is or the are?"

Let me mull that over a beer or two. He raised his blue eyes. I’m still working on my high school diploma.

Right, she nodded, and propped her toothy smile back up. Anyway, the peppers are stuffed with rice, beans, and the chef’s incredible marinated beef, swooping over the last few words with a shake of her auburn curls and wobbly French accent. We’re also known for our world famous Rainbow Inn fish tostada, which she ended with an even less convincing Spanish tilt.

Give me a minute and a Miller Lite. Is the phone still outside the john?

Nothing’s changed but the color of my hair. She winked. And the music in my head.

Traine got up and walked through the dimly lit restaurant. Under normal circumstances he would probably have been more amused by the waitress’s gregarious personality; he might even have engaged her in a series of flirtatious retorts. But just as he had told her, nothing about his life was normal, in this moment. Then he saw the eyes he had felt on his back moments before. The table candle glowed on a pretty face. She mounted a smile, which he noted but ignored. He thought she might be Mexican.

He entered the alcove and placed a phone call to Maryanne. I won’t be making the eight-thirty flight, he told her answering machine. Just a little snafu. He didn’t say goodbye or I love you, and that wasn’t like him. He had an impulse to call back and say just those words. Instead, he returned to the restaurant.

He sipped his beer, ordered a Rainbow tostada and watched the pale evening light disappear beyond the windows. By now, he figured, Marcus and Antonio had ripped apart his house. At the first shots, he was certain Brooke would have jumped in her car and taken off. She was a saint when it came to violence. He tried to remember her new phone number. A call to her would show his concern and might make her feel a little better about their break-up.

Mind if I smoke one?

The fragrance of gardenia preceded her words. Her hand reached for his cigarettes on the counter. He saw her fingers ringed with silver, each with a different design.

Help yourself. He picked up the book of matches, lit her cigarette and looked into the face of the young Latina woman he had passed moments before and whose eyes had been watching him. Have you got a name?

Risa. She sat down next to him. Yours?

Traine.

The waitress brought his food. He turned back to his visitor.

You eating?

No.

If you’re going to park here, you might as well have a beer.

Traine ordered another beer for himself and one for Risa. Her presence next to him had its advantages if Marcus and Antonio burst through the restaurant door. He didn’t think they’d kill her to get to him. He leaned over his plate and took a forkful of food.

Do you come here often? she asked.

Maybe a year ago. How about you?

Never before.

Rita...

She shook her head. Risa.

Like Reese’s Pieces, the candy? He leaned closer and his smile, a little crooked, lit his face. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone named after a peanut butter cup.

My given name is Iris, but I don’t like it. It means rainbow in mythology.

You’ve got the right place for your name. You know a lot about mythology?

The rainbow connects heaven and earth, so Iris was the messenger from there to here.

And Risa doesn’t mean anything?

It means laughter in Spanish.

You must be very funny. How old are you?

Old enough to drink.

The waitress returned with Traine’s beer and filled Risa’s glass. I carded her, she said. She’s legal.

Legal and lonely. Risa dragged on her cigarette and turned to Traine. Where’re you going?

Who said I was going someplace?

Just the way you’re eating. Like you’re in a hurry to get somewhere.

He washed down what was left of the tostada with a long drink of beer and stared back at her. Where’re you going?

I’m following you.

Me? His blond straight brows arched higher. You are funny. Following me could be dangerous.

Most of life is. She tapped her cigarette on the lip of the ashtray and let her smile linger. I like it that way.

Like you’d really know, he thought to himself. A dolled-up hooker who knows a smattering of mythology and claims to be lonely.

Looking carefully at her face, trying to get a read on her, he wasn’t sure where she was from. The eyes were dark blue. Scooped bangs cut across a high forehead. She had full red lips that smiled easily and black hair long enough to hang onto for a night of love.

So where are you going? she asked again.

I’m on a business trip up to Seattle, he lied. Ever been there? She shook her head. He dropped his gaze to the rise of her breasts, only half-covered by a black silk blouse. A leather jacket hung on her shoulders. Her tight red skirt crossed her thighs. He took another drink of beer. What about you?

I’m looking for someone.

Why?

I’ve got something I must tell him. It’s very important.

So why waste your time on me?

Maybe you’re the guy.

He pushed his plate aside and leaned closer. Tell the truth, you smoked a joint, got tricked up, and thought you’d hustle some old guy at the beach. Ain’t that right?

You’re being mean and nowhere near the truth. She stubbed out her cigarette. Can’t we talk somewhere else?

No.

I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. I’ve got a car.

Who says I don’t?

You’re going to die.

Everybody does.

Soon. She reached over and drew another cigarette from his pack.

Maybe you’re my killer. He smiled and lit her cigarette. Where would we go?

Wherever you want. Coffee, a drink.

The idea had its appeal. With Marcus and Antonio still gunning for him, the airport in Oxnard, north of LA, was a safer place to catch a plane. He ordered another beer for himself and rubbed the blond stubble on his chin. Do you tell everyone they’re going to die?

No.

Do you think you’re some kind of fortune teller?

No.

Swami Risa?

No. She answered as fast as he asked.

The front door opened. His head jerked up and he grabbed her arm. Two women, wearing straw hats and talking in loud voices, entered.

Traine dropped his hand.

You’re awfully nervous. Who did you think they were?

He paused a moment. You told me someone was trying to kill me.

No. I said you were going to die.

I’m not smart enough to know the difference. He turned to the clatter of high heels. The women’s shadows fanned the wall. I’m not going to die crossing the street; that much I know. He drank up the rest of his beer. Do you usually pick up guys?

She shook her head. Then a clear honest smile, as beguiling as any he’d ever encountered, rose on her lips. I like you, that’s all.

You don’t even know me.

You think? Maybe I know more than you think I know.

The waitress returned with a fresh beer and took his plate.

Bring me the bill, he said.

He still wasn’t sure about the woman at his side. She had approached him with the weirdest pick-up line he’d ever heard: You’re going to die. Let’s go for coffee. He smiled at the irony. Just over an hour ago, a couple of thugs, outside his own Topanga Canyon house, were intent on killing him. The fear still stuck to his bones. He was standing alone in his driveway, above the beach, tinkering with his ‘86 Camaro and waiting for Brooke to pick up the rest of her clothes. In the past, she’d brought sandwiches from the restaurant or his favorite Caesar salad; but now, finally on her way out of his life, he knew she’d be too pissed off and hurt to bring him anything. She’d already rented her own apartment. Even though they’d lived together less than six months, he’d given her two thousand dollars as a parting gift. Guilt money, she’d called it, between sobs. I don’t want your fucking drug money!

She was sweet, he thought, sort of like the doll next to him, but too naïve for the kind of edgy romance he enjoyed.

He turned back to Risa and caught her smile. You don’t know who I am, he repeated, in a soft voice.

We don’t know who we know. Or who we don’t know. We don’t even know who we are.

You’ve got beautiful eyes, he said. Sometimes in the light they shine almost violet. But you’ve been reading too much crap from India.

Trust me.

He smirked. Dealers don’t trust anyone. If she knew me, she’d know that.

Why did you grab my arm? she asked.

I told you. He finished off his glass of beer, picked up his cigarettes and flipped some bills on the counter.

What’s happening?

We’re going. First, I’ve got to make a phone call.

He took a piss in the closet-size john, and then he rang up Maryanne. Again her answering machine picked up. He hit the phone with his fist and hung up. Maybe it was her impulsiveness and laughter that aroused him when he thought of her. Or the fact that he identified with her loneliness. But right now, it was his loneliness that needed attending to. Maryanne was a boat baby from Vietnam, with slim wrists, dark gleaming eyes, and, hidden deep within her, a penchant for self-destruction. Annihilation of the soul, his junkie friend, Mousey, had called it.

Traine was hoping she’d have the time to pick him up at the airport in Seattle.

Risa was standing under the blue light at the door when he walked back into the room. From a distance, her eyes seemed to glow like violet fires. We don’t know who we know, or who we don’t know, or even who we are. The words kicked softly through his mind. She’s a beauty, he thought.

*****

The night air felt cool off the ocean. There were still green streaks in the sky but the edges were already black, and he could see the moon floating through clouds.

He pushed his long legs against the front floorboard of the ‘96 Accord. Whose car?

I borrowed it.

Your father’s?

Sort of.

Okay, so she isn’t a hooker, he thought to himself.

He knew cars. He knew enough to fix them and how fast the different models could go. That kind of skill and information came in handy dealing drugs in remote and sometimes menacing places. His knowledge of cars had given him a legitimate business facade, a perfect cover for his drug dealing. He leaned forward and switched on the radio. He felt a crick in his back, just below his shoulder. Rolling off a cliff ain’t too good for the muscles, he thought to himself. He settled back against the comfort of the seat. How could he not have heard Marcus and Antonio approach, he wondered. He saw himself sliding under the Camaro, the same ‘86 Camaro he’d bought ten years ago with cash from his fist big score, a present to himself on his twentieth birthday. He remembered turning his head and peeking at the steel jack holding up the front end. He’d been under the Camaro countless times with its heavy weight bearing down on his face. Death, he reminded himself, was always that close in the drug trade. He brushed his hand along the warm driveway cement, groping blindly for a wrench. Maryanne was going to be coming down soon to live with him. She had his take of a drug deal, fifty thousand dollars, stashed in her Seattle apartment. In a bedroom drawer with her silk panties and lingerie I brought back from Trinidad. Then a drop of grease fell on the stubble of his unshaven cheek. That’s when he twisted his head and saw the flat dark shadow on the cement. He held his breath. Slowly, carefully, he turned his head to the other side. Another shadow darkened the pavement just beyond the right tire. Why hadn’t he heard a car approach or the sound of footsteps? He rolled his eyes back.

He could still feel the deadly heat of three thousand pounds of steel bearing down on his face. He shuddered and turned back to Risa.

Whatcha thinking?

Nothing, he mumbled.

She was driving up the Malibu coast, past the mega-million dollar beachfront homes and strip malls with neon-frosted Spanish facades. Classical music flowed through the car speakers. He pushed another button but the same music played. The next button he pushed kept the music going.

Your radio’s fucked-up.

She looked straight ahead, as if she hadn’t heard him.

Where’re we going?

It’s not much further.

They make good coffee?

Yup.

As long as they were heading north, he didn’t really care. The further away he was from Marcus and Antonio the safer he felt. But the music couldn’t drown out the voices in his head. Traine? Traine? Marcus’ voice was cool, patient, with a European accent. You didn’t think you could lose us, hiding under the Camaro, did you? The shadow on the right side moved. Traine flashed on the shiny black shoe poking at the base of the car jack. You sure you’re not under there, Traine?

Yeah, I’m here, he remembered saying. What do you guys want?

A few words, Traine. Why don’t you crawl out from under there?

Traine heard their laughter. He was sure his unexpected visitors were crazy enough to take turns kicking at the jack until either he surrendered or the Camaro flattened his face. Castañon, the scrap metal investor, wasn’t buying the dealer’s story that the fifty thousand had been ripped off, or that Jaye, the Venezuelan contact, was dead.

Traine heard the dull thud of shoe leather against steel. His body stiffened. The car wobbled slightly, like the flutter of a bird’s wing, inches above his blinking eyes. He pressed his shoulders against the concrete and edged forward, hoping the men wouldn’t kick him in the groin or crack his ribs as he emerged from under the chassis.

Only a few hours had passed since then. His life hanging in the balance three beers and a tostada ago.

Traine remembered clearing the bumper, rolling sideways and jumping to his feet. A chrome .45 was pointed at his chin.

Traine shook his head, pushing away the weight of fears that had settled in. He glanced over to Risa. He thought of trying another station on the car radio again, but, instead, he closed his eyes. His belly was full. The beer fuzzed his brain. He could feel his shoulder muscles relax. You’re driving too fast, he mumbled. The last thing he wanted was for them to get pulled over by the cops. What’s the rush?

Risa didn’t answer. She saw that he was drifting into sleep. Light from the passing street lamps caught his face. The cynical disdain and aggression he showed in the restaurant turned, in repose, to a gentleness and even a touch of lost nobility on his face. A feeling of excitement and promise rushed through her. He was the right one. She was certain. Eton, her mentor, had sent her because he trusted her to make the right choice. She was certain she had.

Shadows of trees swayed across the highway. She swerved to avoid a pothole. Traine bounced up.

Sorry. She shot a quick glance his way.

The wind howled. In the distance, above the moonlit hills, he saw lightning scorch the coal black sky.

Where the hell are we?

You’ll see, she said, driving up a steep dirt road.

Far below, Traine noticed the lights of a city sparkling in the darkness. He laid his hands on the dash. Jesus Christ, what’s that?

Trust me.

I don’t trust anyone! he shouted.

She glanced back. You’re not afraid, are you?

What does she know about fear? But the thought disappeared in the fusion of shadow and moonlight. She looked so much stronger than he had gauged her at the Rainbow Inn. He wasn’t physically afraid of her, but he sensed a willfulness, a relentless intensity, which made him think twice about grabbing the wheel.

He pulled back and watched her navigate. Her arms stiff, her violet eyes shining straight ahead, plunging the car purposely downhill into the heart of a dazzling blue light.

Then Traine heard a sound, like a sharp electrical snap. He jerked his head to the side. Through the car window he saw the wind roaring past, blurring his vision and sending a whining, piercing sound through his brain, crashing into every cell, into every fiber of his flesh and bone.

The windshield warped and splintered. He turned towards Risa. She too was a blur of wind and light.

His whole world catapulted into complete darkness. He heard the haunting words: We don’t know who we are... we don’t know... Then, silence.

*****

CHAPTER 2

THE WINDOW

He awoke, blinked. The dream was gone. Before him stretched a floor-to-ceiling window that served as the room’s southern wall. A deep forest appeared, not more than fifty feet beyond the glass. He raised his head, propped his elbows against the gurney-like bed he was lying on and stared at the white sheet covering his body. There were no needles in his arms or tubes running to machines. He lifted his eyes again to the forest. Rays of golden light streamed through the trees. It reminded him of sunlight falling through the clouds at dusk as he surfed the waves off the Malibu coast, and of light shining through the empty apartment windows where he’d lived long ago with his mother.

A door clicked behind him.

How do you feel? Risa stopped at the foot of his bed.

Where am I? What happened?

You’re safe. She smiled warmly. She had changed from her sexy outfit of the night before into a plain cotton blouse and jeans. Her scooped bangs combed back off her face made her dark blue eyes all the more prominent and magical. I want to help you, she said.

Traine tried to sit up. There was no pain, only a tightening across his chest; he couldn’t fold his body upwards. He leaned back on his elbows. I don’t need any help. I need to get out of here.

You have a choice to make.

"I don’t want to hear anymore