Summer Sweat (A Killer Among Us Thriller, Book 2)

By Shirley Spain

The killer straps women to his homemade spanking bench, beats them with a paint-scraping wire brush or rolled up newspaper until they beg to die, then skins them alive. He’s stalking his next victim. You!

Sexy Summer Davis has it all. The forty-year-old retired fitness model is gorgeous. Was recently elected to her first term as a city council member. Is married to a wealthy businessman. And is passionately involved in a variety of charities. To know Summer is to love her. Or not.

One morning she finds a severed finger in her driveway. Anonymous letters demanding she “Resign now or else!” appear in her mailbox every Monday. Her husband’s jealous of the time she spends on charity projects and threatens divorce. Someone driving a black Chrysler 300 is stalking her. Rayne, her psychic twin brother, receives visions indicating her life’s in jeopardy. And a serial killer’s on the prowl for his next victim ... Summer!

Does she have multiple enemies, or is one person sending the letters, stalking her, and the source of her brother’s visions? Clues stack up. Suspicions rise. The murderer is likely someone Summer knows. Could he be her best friend’s husband? A current or former city council member? The womanizing jerk at the gym? The overly protective police officer? Maybe even her husband?

Will Summer discover the killer’s identity in time to avoid the horrors of his spanking bench and an agonizing death? Or will she become his most prized trophy yet?

Download “Summer Sweat” today to explore the “A Killer Among Us” series of killer-good stand alone novels.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shirley Spain
• Release date: Feb 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310256950

Shirley Spain

An animal lover, fitness instructor, and author of dark and chilling thrillers...Shirley strives for what she calls, "plausible realism" in her books and garners critical details from her "police ride along" experiences as well as educating herself by attending and graduating from the West Jordan Citizen's Police Academy and receiving training as a CERT member (Community Emergency Response Team). She is currently a West Jordan Police Department VIPS (Volunteer In Police Service).​When researching Ultimate Trust (book 2 in the Jewels Trust M.U.R.D.E.R. series) her antagonist built a bomb and consequently blew up a house. To ensure the scene was "plausible" she met with the fire chief and a SWAT arson investigator who helped her "build a better bomb" for her story!"Thinking up and plotting the dastardly deeds of demented killers is a challenge," Shirley says. "However the real fun begins when figuring out how my heroine--and her studly hero, of course--will turn the tables, outsmart the twisted murderer, and survive."In real life, Shirley has been a victim of human predators more than once, yet lives by the motto: No matter what horrible circumstance life hurls at you, choose to survive and become stronger because of it. She uses that maxim as a guide when writing her novels.Shirley often wrangles friends into "role playing" when researching scenes and admits she "experiments" on herself and has done so with some of the tools her bad guys use, including duct tape, a variety of rope, and handcuffs. She even locked herself in the trunk of her car and attempted to escape. Hmmm. Knowing this, you may wonder how many of the stunts described in her books she tried on herself ... but she'll never tell!

Book preview

Summer Sweat

Contents, copyright © 2016, 2020 Shirley A. Spain

All Rights Reserved

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 enjoyment only, then please return to your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental. The author does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

Website: www.ShirleyASpain.com

Email: [e-mail]

Facebook: https://facebook.com/authorshirleyspain

Dedication

To Becky Smith

My Yes, I did … No, I did not … Yes, I will,

friend who makes me laugh so hard I snort.

Acknowledgements

I could not be living my dream as an author were it not for the relentless support and patience of my fabulous husband, Curtis Spain, and my dear friend, Peggy Beach, along with the cheers and words of encouragement from so many others. I am blessed and humbled to have so many wonderful people in my life who accept and love me despite my quirkiness.

Author’s Note

WITH THE THOUSANDS of terrific authors in the world and literally millions of books to choose from, I am honored and sincerely grateful you have chosen Summer Sweat for your entertainment.

No matter if you discovered this novel based on the recommendation of a friend, or if you’re a fan of my other books, or if you simply happened to be perusing selections and found the story description intriguing, THANK YOU for purchasing this book.

I wish you a killer good entertaining experience.

Shirley

Website: www.ShirleyASpain.com

Email: [e-mail]

Facebook: https://facebook.com/authorshirleyspain

P.S. Please visit my website http://www.shirleyaspain.com to download the ebook version FREE of my stand-alone novel, Forever Breathless, from my Killer Among Us collection of psychological thrillers.

FREE!

http://www.shirleyaspain.com

Table of Contents

Cover

Dedication

Acknowledgements

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Thank You!

About the Author

ONE

MAY 18th.

P-p-please kill me, Amanda Hampton croaks, her vocal chords shot from relentless screaming.

Filled with satisfaction, the nude libertine smirks at his no-longer-pretty captive.

Restrained on her knees, her body is hunched as if draped over a saw horse. Leather belts fastened around her wrists, ankles, and waist secure her facedown to the legs of the harsh spanking bench he crudely crafted out of plywood scraps and old four-by-four fence posts.

Her head wobbles as she struggles to gaze up at him. What’s left of her face resembles a grotesque zombie mask. Mangled flesh dangles like strips of curing jerky. Strands of crimson saliva and bubbles of pink snot ooze from her mutilated lips and nose. Ki-ki-kill me.

He rubs his skinned knuckles that were gouged on her teeth and cheek bones from walloping her with his bare fists. He shakes out his hands. Twists side to side and stretches his arms above his head.

For the past two hours he has spanked her. His choice of paddling devices alternating between a rolled up newspaper, paint-stripping wire brush, cane carpet beater, and a switch he created from a narrow branch of one of the willow trees on his property.

J-j-just kill me. P-p-please.

Unmoved, he basks in the glory of another exhilarating round of ecstasy. Amanda Hampton is his fantasy realized. Finally.

Swaggering, he circles her body. Admires the backside of the shapely brunette as she kneels on the rough wooden planks soaked in an ever-growing puddle of her own blood and urine.

Her buttocks, low back, and tops of her thighs look like shaved pastrami. Her sweaty flesh shimmers in the slivers of sunlight peeking through the slats of the shabby roof. Sporadically she coughs and inhales short, fast breaths. Uncontrollably she quivers. Obviously not from the cold on this balmy morning, but from pain and terror. Pain and terror he inflicted.

A mild breeze blows into the old slaughterhouse.

The odor of her raw flesh and fresh piss sifts through the air.

He jerks his head up at the distinctive scent which triggers a flashback to his childhood. His eyelids drift shut. Jaw tightens.

It’s spring. He’s six years old and just finished devouring a big plate of Grammy’s homemade biscuits and gravy.

Pappy wants you to help him, he remembers his grandmother saying. You’re old enough to learn where that Sunday pot roast comes from. Smiling pleasantly she adds, Go learn to be a man, Sweetie.

Learn to be a man? Wow. As fast as his six-year-old legs can carry him, he dashes out the back door of the farmhouse, the flimsy screen door singing that distinctive creak-slap-slap tune as it slams shut. He sprints up the hill, which seems as steep as a mountain, to the garage-size cinder block shed. Approaching the two-story building he slows his pace.

Chaos emanates from within the shed.

Pappy grunts.

Chains rattle.

Cows moo, long and drawn groans like he’s never heard.

His eyes focus on a shallow dirt trench stretching from inside the building to the pasture below. A river that looks like raspberry syrup sluggishly flows down the hill.

Winged bugs of all sizes and shapes swarm the edges of the ditch.

The deep red syrup pools in the otherwise green pasture.

Mounds of sausage links rise from the crimson lake like little islands.

Black and white birds chatter as they hop about and peck at the sausage heaps.

A repulsive stench akin to a combination of rotting meat and manure lingers in the air.

Get in here, Boy, Pappy barks. Empty these buckets.

His body stiffens at the recollection of his grandfather’s gruff voice. He relives stepping into the doorway of the cinder block building that day. Won’t ever forget the sight.

The three live cows hang upside down. Their back legs chained together. Hooves raised toward the roof by a pulley. Front legs kick midair. Bodies sway side to side. Blood gushes from their throats. Big brown cow eyes wide, long pink tongues hanging out…

He remembers covering his ears, pinching his eyes shut, and puking Grammy’s homemade biscuits and gravy all over his cowboy boots. Also recalls the aftermath.

Are you a queer, Boy? Pappy hollers, stomping over, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him deeper inside the slaughter shed.

Only queers throw up. My only grandson won’t be a fag. I’ll make a man’s man outta you, Pappy guarantees. Pull down your pants and underwear and kneel over that bale, he orders, pointing to a moldy bale of alfalfa.

The brittle hay twigs prick his stomach, thighs, and his little dick. Granules of rock grind into his knees. But that misery doesn’t compare to the brutal bite of Pappy’s switch. Feels like a swarm of bees stinging his bare backside. Giant bees which keep stinging and stinging even hours after the flogging ends. No, Pappy. Stop. Please stop, he remembers begging time and again to no avail.

Even a half-dozen years later, no matter how hard he tries or how empty his stomach, witnessing the gruesome process and hauling bucket after bucket of gooey intestines down to the pasture makes him puke. Subsequently requiring Pappy to beat the queer out of him with the same switch used to drive the cattle into the slaughterhouse.

Whether fostered by the dread of savage beatings or simply the mental numbing effect of having participated in the inhumane slaughter so many times, by the time he reaches puberty he tolerates the killing ritual every spring and fall … without vomiting ever again. Yet he never shakes off the smile on Grammy’s face that first morning she told him to, "Learn to be a man, Sweetie." Thereafter, each time he endures his grandfather’s severe whippings, he fantasizes about hammering his fists into his grandmother’s face with such force she never smiles again.

Please, kill me. Just kill me. Amanda’s words are barely audible, yet loud enough to draw him back to the present.

He opens his eyes. Relaxes his shoulders and tilts his head back. Extending his arms wide to his side, "Pappy, behold my version of the spring slaughter," he announces to the heavens with the gusto of Moses parting the Red Sea in Cecil B. DeMille’s epic film, The Ten Commandments.

Gazing down at his victim, he grins. And she will never smile again.

Please. Amanda coughs and chokes. Catching her breath she wails, Why don’t you just kill me now?

He makes a clucking noise with his tongue. Shakes his head and cracks his knuckles. "Come on, Sweetie. I’m disappointed in you. What happened to your enthusiasm for our clandestine adventure?" he taunts, referencing the ruse used to convince her to climb into his truck.

Her sobbing and sporadic gasping intensifies. I-I can’t take any more. She launches a physical fit, jerking her arms and legs against the leather straps, tossing her head back and forth, and wiggling her body.

The wooden bench creaks and rocks back and forth as she fights, but remains superior.

Her frenzied outburst lasts about five seconds. Exasperated, she sucks air hard. Pleeeeeease. Kill me.

The spanking’s merely foreplay. He consults his wristwatch. Licks his thumb and rubs it over the black digital screen to remove the spackles of dried blood. Ten-forty. We’ll take a break at noon. I’ll have a bit of lunch. You can have a swallow of water. Until then, let’s see how much fun we can have with Pappy’s favorite slaughter tool.

Too weak to raise her head, No. No, she blubbers, having no idea of the torment which lies ahead.

He retrieves the knife from his duffle bag. Unsheathes it. Scrutinizes the instrument for a moment.

The blade is squatty with a distinctive gut hook at the tip. Its luster’s dull, yet the edge remains razor sharp. The details of the scrolled engravings on the wooden handle are worn smooth.

Twirling the heirloom knife in his hand, he paces at his captive’s side. It’s well-documented throughout history, and even as recent as last year among rival Mexican drug cartels, that when people are flayed, in other words skinned alive, some die within hours. Others survive for days.

"No, no, pleeeeease. I want to die. Please just kill me now."

I have experience skinning deer, rabbits, and cows. But the animals were dead … or mostly dead, he adds with a sinister chuckle. I have no idea what to expect when removing the skin from a live being. Let alone a squirming, squealing woman.

Amanda’s hysteria surges. Once again she wildly jerks her arms and legs and contorts her body, fighting the unyielding restraints while screaming at the top of her lungs.

A Grinch grin parts his face. He’s been preparing for this day for years. Knows exactly what he’ll do and how he’ll do it. Just like the fate of a cow helplessly subjected to the cruelty of Pappy’s slaughter chute, Amanda is destined to endure the inescapable tortures of his spanking bench.

Once she’s dead, he’ll use Pappy’s vintage tractor to plow her into the ground. The steel discs of the heavy-duty harrow pulverizing her body into the likes of coarsely-ground hamburger. Within hours of amending the soil, the magpies will gather to feast on the shreds of flesh not completely buried, just as they had on cattle guts.

Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. His disposal plan is foolproof. Amanda Hampton will never be found. Therefore, he will never be caught. Never.

As if mounting a horse he straddles her raw buttocks. Her bloody flesh feels silky against his thighs. His dick swells. Delight curves the corners of his lips upward.

Flattening his left hand between her shoulder blades, he straightens his elbow and presses down with the weight of his body.

Amanda groans. Her head twitches.

Her long hair is matted with dirt and blood. He flicks the dreadlocks off the nape of her neck with the back of the knife. Positions the tip of the blade near the top of her spine, pushes down and swiftly slices across the right side of her shoulder, making the first cut of the dozens to come.

Ahhhhhhhhhh! Ahhhhhhhhhh! Ahhhhhhhhhh!

Only one way for me to learn the skill of flaying, he shouts over her screeches as he continues to carve her skin.

Insanely she wiggles about and tosses her head back and forth. Yet he remains seated on her bloody rump with the agility of a seasoned bronc rider. Note to self: Next time strap her head down.

TWO

TWO DAYS LATER.

MAY 20th.

ABOUT 9:15 A.M.

Summer tugs on the eighteen-inch nylon leash. Sit, Buster. She wrestles to control the unruly Anatolian Shepherd-mastiff mix trying to bulldoze through the vinyl fence gate before it’s unlocked. Not giving the beefy dog a chance to lunge at the gate again, she positions herself in front of him and snaps her fingers to gain his attention. Sit. Applying moderate pressure with her palm on top of his rump, she presses downward.

Panting heavily, slobber dangling like light Karo syrup from his jowls, Buster finally sits. His big copper eyes gaze up at her.

"Good Boy, and not a single bleep from me so far this round. That’s a first for us and a great way to start today’s walk. Pleased with the progression of his training, she pats him on the head. You’re an excellent test for me. In spite of your stubbornness I’m still holding true to my New Year’s resolution."

Associating with those who regularly employ coarse words, Summer picked up the habit. Unhappy with her use of colorful language, her only New Year’s resolution this year is to cease spouting four letter words. Instead, when the temptation to spew an expletive, or even a benign alternative such as darn, heck, or shoot, Summer says bleep.

Buster remains obediently fixated on her.

Turning her back to the foster dog, she opens the gate.

Pony-size and as strong as a tractor, Buster charges through.

Sit, Buster. Sit.

Buster lurches into the middle of the driveway with such force Summer wonders if he might rip her arm out of the socket or dislocate her fingers. So much for the padded leash handle.

Busssssterrrrr…

With Summer in tow, the dog’s huge paws chaotically churn. His claws create scraping noises as he powers his way across the stamped concrete. Abruptly he stops, lowers his head, and sniffs what appears to be a shriveled carrot dappled with dried mud.

Grateful the big galoot stopped on his own, she relaxes her grip on the leash and wiggles her squashed fingers. What did you find, Buster? She steps closer.

Flies buzz the brownish stub.

Her forehead creases. How in the world did one of my Jobes tree stakes wind up in the middle of the driveway? She bends down, reaching for it.

Buster snarfs it up, holding it in his mouth like a stogie. Foamy drool swinging from his lips.

No! Summer drops to her knees at his side. Cringes. Her denim jeans provide little cushion against the patterned concrete. Leave it, Buster!

Defiantly he turns his head away.

Concerned the plant food might be harmful should the dog ingest even a small amount, she firmly grasps his collar with one hand and snaps her fingers with the other. Leave it. She opens her hand and holds it under the dog’s mouth hoping he’ll spit it into her palm.

With a swift upward flip of his head, he repositions the forbidden stub deeper into his mouth so it’s no longer visible.

A strand of frothy dog spit smacks Summer in