Black Out

By John Bankston

Morgan Anderson just did a bad, bad thing. Even worse, she can't remember.  Since turning 16 five years ago, her memory holes have been expanding. Now they threaten to swallow her whole. 

The petite blonde is back in Orange County, California a place she loves for the surf and sand. During one of her black-outs, a man tries to rob the after-hours Newport Beach tanning salon she manages. Morgan awakens inside Hoag Hospital. Her father, Detective Mike Anderson, tells her she killed the attacker. It was clearly self defense, but there are questions. Like how did she overpower a steroid case who outweighed her by one-hundred pounds? How come she only has a few bruises? And why can’t she remember the attack?

An erotic and neurotic thriller, Black Out occurs during a single troubled week in Morgan’s life. She dates David, a man she met at Bar Church and confides in Colt, her best friend with occasional benefits. All the while, Morgan is being stalked by Bob, a homeless man she fought with in Portland and by Victor her older ex-boyfriend who also dated her mother and now has his sights set on Morgan’s teenage sister.  

The recovered memories Morgan unearths will threaten her sanity. And the fight she wages against the source of her black-outs will soon threaten everyone she loves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Bankston
• Release date: Oct 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533749635

John Bankston

John Bankston is the author of over 100 nonfiction books for children and young adults, including biographies of Lois Lowry, Ray Bradbury and Selena Gomez. He wrote this novel while living in Newport Beach, California -- one of his favorite places in the entire world. 

Book preview

Also by John Bankston (selected works)

––––––––

Who Wrote That? Lois Lowry (2009)

Who Wrote That? Katherine Paterson (2009)

Who Wrote That? Christopher Paolini (2010)

Who Wrote That? Ray Bradbury (2011)

Women of Achievement Nellie Bly  (2011)

Ancient India: Maurya Empire (2013)

Your Land and My Land: Africa We Visit Kenya (2013)

A Day in the Life of Chloe Moretz (2013)

A Day in the Life of Selena Gomez (2013)

Ancient Civilizations: Genghis Khan (2014)

Blue Banner Biography: Kevin Durant (2014)

Career Biographies: Steve Jobs (2016)

Popular Icons: Jennifer Lawrence (2016)

And the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not comprehend it.

John 1:5 New King James Bible Nashville, TN: Thomas Nelson, Inc. 1982.

If heaven and hell decide

That they both are satisfied

Illuminate the 'no's'  on their vacancy signs

If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks

Then I'll follow you into the dark.

I Will Follow You Into the Dark, Death Cab for Cutie

Gibbard, Ben. Music & Lyrics. I Will Follow You Into the Dark, Plans. Atlantic, 2006. LP

SUNDAY

Standing naked in the kitchen of Bret’s tanning salon, Morgan Anderson did a quick shot of cherry vodka. She took a beat, then did another –– just enough to keep the mundane from becoming totally boring.

Returning her attention to the small washer, she watched Chemical Free All bubble over skinny 7s, a pink baby doll t-shirt, a lilac Roxy hoodie and a purple thong. Someone once told Morgan she did laundry like a guy, but it was so much faster this way. Besides, way before most of her clothes had time to fade she lost them or wanted new ones.

She glanced at her pink Uggs, the only other thing she’d been wearing, standing at attention in the corner. She dumped the week’s accumulated dirties out of a paper Trader Joe’s bag. Brightly colored t-shirts joined their cousins, along with more thongs, boy shorts and two pairs of True Religion jeans purchased second-hand (along with the 7s) last month from the Portland Buffalo Exchange.

The colorful, occasionally pricy clothes represented Morgan’s OC wardrobe. There were no whites, but more importantly, there were no blacks or grays. In Oregon, she’d gone way too heavy on the blacks and grays.

Bret bought the washer-dryer for towels, but Morgan didn’t get health insurance. To her, saving quarters was an employee benefit.

The tanning salon operated out of a converted second-floor apartment. Its two bedrooms held tanning beds, the living room a Mystic sprayer. After just a month in Newport and three weeks managing Bret’s little business, Morgan had developed a comfortable routine. She’d come in right after Bar Church, blasting happy music and stripping down. Doing a shot or three before spray tanning while her clothes got clean meant she wouldn’t have a stitch to wear for over an hour. But the salon was closed. The longer she let the spray set, the better it looked.

To Morgan there were few places sexier. All those gorgeous people getting naked and chilling in the UVAs. Most probably masturbated. One good reason for blasting techno and old school hip-hop.

Truth is, Morgan envied the bed people. If she masturbated in the sprayer, she’d get the weirdest tan ever. They lay down in warmth. She was never warm. They napped. If she napped, she’d fall over. 

Exiting the kitchen, she padded barefoot to the tiny front room. This was where she greeted customers six days a week from nine p.m. ‘til three or four in the morning. This was where she took their cash (no checks or credit cards, only cash) and dropped the money through a small slot in a metal box. And this was where she struggled with the computer while wondering why she dropped out of high school.

The computer dominated a cherry wood desk, both furnishings and technology too elaborate for a business where she was the only employee. Sighing, she booted up the computer. After only two attempts, Morgan programed the Mystic.

Stepping into the hallway, she smelled coconut tanning lotion and instantly remembered Virgin Coladas shared with her mother. She was sixteen the last time they tanned beside her uncle’s pool. In the five years since, a ton had happened.

Then she saw herself in the cheap mirror nailed to the Mystic Room’s door and realized how much hadn’t changed. Its reflection contained a face unblemished by sleepless nights and blonde hair undamaged by neglect. Morgan hadn’t added an ounce since earning her driver’s license. Her ribs were prominent, her hipbones curved up. Best of all, her boobs were still perky. Most big-busted girls her age were already worrying about sagging (at least the natural big-busted girls).

Despite the small victories, to Morgan the mirror’s image was just so much smoke departing an ashtrayed cigarette. What she saw shifted and changed. She knew her body was created by God, but she felt nothing but disgust. She could have been one more member of the walking dead –– a dumpy, bland girl without fire or passion.

Tearing herself away with a sigh, she opened the door and entered the machine.

A little color would do her good.

-2-

The salon’s phone rang just as Morgan’s tanning session ended. She could have let it go to voicemail, but it might be Bret. He’d been in Hawaii for over a week and since he still didn’t trust her to make deposits the cash was piling up. It no longer fit in the metal till; she’d started putting the money in envelopes, writing the amounts on the upper corner. Hardly safe.

Goosebumps grew along her skin as she exited the Mystic room. She was fixing her ponytail when she heard a noise. Morgan stopped.

A man was behind the counter.

His back was to her, his attention on the till. Although her stomach clenched, for a moment she thought she’d be okay. Bret was rich. She wasn’t fighting a criminal in her birthday suit. Screaming was pointless –– next door was a baseline so loud the wall was vibrating.

She backed up. If she turned around and locked herself in the Mystic room, she could call for help. Her cell was back there in her purse. The Newport Beach Police had great response times.

Then the man turned. He smiled.

He was wearing an Ed Hardy shirt at least a size too small; his arms were thick and veiny like most cheesy HB boys. The tips of his faux hawk were frosted – a detail she noticed despite her terror. His skin was faked-baked, his eyes raccooned from wearing the plastic goggles.

And he wasn’t a customer.

Take the money. Morgan’s voice trembled. To the right, her vulnerability was reflected in the mirror. The cameras aren’t working.

He stepped forward and his raspy voice just barely carried over the salon’s music and the party next door. I know. We fucked your security.

It felt like she’d swallowed a jagged ice cube. Sweat bloomed along her spine before traveling south down her crack. A sudden breeze contained the stink of his cologne: spicy and over-applied. Beneath that was a scent both acrid and familiar. A few strands of hair escaped their band, drifting past her eyes. She pushed them away while gauging the distance to her phone.

She backed up slowly: a child trying to escape a feral dog. Her toes tickled against the soft carpeting.  A mile to go.

Another step.

It was going to be all right.

Morgan glanced at the man, judging the distance separating them. He looked hungry.

She knew what he saw: a naked female, fake tan drying on a body both young and weak. Decision sparked in his eyes. She spun, banging her shoulder into the wall as her hand reached for the knob. She gasped in pain. The man’s sneakers were slapping against the carpeting as he sprinted toward her.

Morgan saw her open purse and the cellphone of salvation.

And then his hand closed over her wrist.

The guy was perspiring, his cheeks reddening. He yanked her forward. Her feet left the ground. Their bodies collided. His chest pressed her boobs flat, his heartbeat a rhythm through her skin. She felt hardness through his jeans.

That was when she realized he was yelling at her, his rage coming out in spittle and bad breath. But she didn’t hear a word. It was like being underwater.

Morgan screamed.

She felt it as rawness in her throat and pain in her head, but she couldn’t hear a thing. Her yell was probably swallowed by the music next door but he still picked her up over his head before tossing her like a throw pillow.

The hallway flipped upside down. Plastic chairs banged against her legs, then upended over her back. The carpet burned. She tasted blood.

Sound returned. She heard his curses –– heard the words Bitch and Cunt ––along with Snoop Dogg’s soliloquies and a distant siren.

Morgan rose. She would not run. Five feet away the mirror captured her image. Every muscle froze like bas relief with veins throbbing across her chest and forehead. Her hair was tangled, her lips a polluted sunset.

She no longer looked scared.

She looked ready.

The man smiled.

Darkness arrived.

-3-

The stone wall grew cold under Meat’s ass. He’d arrived ten minutes earlier and immediately knew that even for Newport, there were way too many cops for a robbery. Half-a-dozen of their black-and-white Suburbans blocked off the parking lot entrances; uniformed officers were interviewing bar patrons.

Whatever happened, it had been ugly and it was over.

Lonnie was supposed to call. Meat had spent hours conjuring scenarios. How had his friend fucked up something so simple? Bret owed Meat twenty grand. But the guy had been ignoring Meat’s calls. Tough luck for him –– he still had a key and he knew that not only did every customer pay cash but the girl didn’t make deposits.

She didn’t open on Sundays either.

Lonnie owed him a favor. Taking a thousand or two out of the till would have made up for some of Meat’s trouble. Call it interest and penalties.

So, yesterday, he drove Lonnie from HB to the Balboa Peninsula. At five a.m, they’d broken the security cameras. Meat gave his best friend the door key and a fifty-fifty split.

A police siren startled Meat. He stood, squinting as the lights from one of the Suburbans strobed across the lot. A moment later, a van pulled alongside the tanning salon’s building, Newport Beach Coroner emblazoned on its side.

Meat backed away. Because his best friend since senior year at Edison High hadn’t just robbed the salon. He’d killed the girl who worked there.

-4-

Detective Anderson! Mike Anderson turned at the sound of his name. The narrow hallway was littered with plastic cups and busy cops.

His stomach wrenched. As a rookie detective he’d been at the scene of three teens whose lives were scissored by a shotgun. Their grimy apartment had been painted with blood and hair.

This was worse. This was his daughter.

At the hallway’s conclusion, he shook hands with the man who’d called his name –– a guy both taller and leaner. At 6’2, Anderson weighed 230 but he’d been trying to lose twenty of that for almost as many years.

That’s right.

We spoke on the phone. Detective Christopher Magnol, Robbery-Homicide.

Rage was a color; the walls went pink. Don’t play me, Magnol.

Excuse me? The thin smile never left the other detective’s face.

You told me my daughter had an accident, that she was in trouble but physically she’s okay.

That’s right.

Then why the fuck is a dead man’s ride waiting downstairs?

Magnol sighed. Listen, I’m not gonna ‘cop’ you. I’ll answer whatever questions you have. But you have to see something first.

Anderson appraised the man’s tailored suit and shiny shoes. His Riverside County neighbors would make him for a well-heeled investor, but Anderson figured after-hours most of those guys dressed like his late wife’s brother. Who actually was a well-heeled Newport Beach investor while wearing shorts and t-shirts every day but Sunday.

Magnol was way too spiffy for one-thirty in the am.

When Magnol traversed the divide between hallway and crime scene, Anderson followed. This my daughter’s place? He hated his ignorance.

No, this here’s a tanning club –– no biz license, strictly cash and after-hours.

I’ve busted some after-hours bars, but after-hours tanning?

Magnol shrugged. This is Newport. Come on in, the coroner and the techies are done. Not much to trip over.

It was a wreck. A crack bisected the front desk; stepping over a computer, Anderson glanced at the circuits spreading out across a speckled carpet.

Gets worse.

Figured.

Just a warning.

Anderson’s professionalism slid away like an old bathrobe. Beneath plastic sheeting, small ruby footprints tracked the center of the room. Morgan’s.

When he ran his hand over his face, it came back wet. Embarrassed, he made fists and rubbed his eyes. Hard. He needed to lean against the wall. He needed a drink.

Instead, he took a deep breath as Magnol indicated a small room to the left. In here.

Pausing for a moment, Anderson looked around. Any security footage?

Negative. Two cameras: one downstairs over the entrance, one outside in the hall. Linked to the computer. He grimaced as he indicated the crushed PC. IT guy’s on his way, maybe he can flush an image off the hard drive. No sign of a break in; the perp had a key.

You sure? He felt a little better asking questions.

Magnol nodded then slipped into the room. Taking another deep breath, Anderson followed.

The detective was posed beside the tanning bed like a salesman. Anderson thought maybe it had been hit with a hammer or a bat –– until he saw what had coagulated in its indentations. 

This was the... well weapon for lack of a better word.

Shattered bulbs lay beneath cracked plastic and shards had sprayed across the carpeting. They were covered in blood. Looking up, Anderson took in the room’s only decoration: a poster of a naked model. Photographed from the rear, her skin was an even curtain of brown. Magnol stepped aside and Anderson lowered his gaze.

A white sheet covered the small shape. Tears returned.

When he spoke, his voice came out sounding weak and high. Magnol, you said my daughter was okay. That she was okay... but you wanted me to come here first. What the fuck?

Holy shit, Detective, Magnol backed up, his shoulders jostling the poster’s cheap frame. That’s not your daughter. He pulled away the sheet.

Lying crumpled in the corner was a man – for Anderson saw it was a man – who had been folded like a cheap t-shirt. His forehead met his knees while his face was a mess of bruises. Just below the corpse’s jawline, a perforated line bisected his throat. There was less than the expected amount of blood.

Your daughter is fine. I wanted you here because I need your help.

My help? This is a robbery, yeah? This the guy?

It appears so. Magnol knitted his brow. The key to the place? Jammed into his hand. Got a couple Miss Dees off his ID: robberies.

Someone helped Morgan fight this guy off?

No sign of that I’m afraid. The door was open –– some kids from the party next door entered the premises. They discovered your daughter. She was catatonic, naked and covered in blood.

Anderson stared hard at the detective. No offense, Magnol, but why are you talking to me when I should be talking to her? This was a righteous kill.

Self defense, yeah. Except, logic gets in the way.

What, you want to charge my kid with abuse of a corpse?

Magnol shook his head. I’m gonna level with you. I recognized your picture on your daughter’s phone. I took your seminar on unsolveds last May.

This seem unsolved to you?

Come on, Detective.

Come on, yourself. My daughter defended herself.

Anderson turned to leave.

Magnol called after him. "It was self-defense. Except your daughter is 5’2, a buck-five, and beat down a perp who topped 200 pounds and ate steroids for breakfast."

Anderson stopped, but he didn’t look back. Okay. It’s crazy. I get you. But I’ve seen adrenaline do some weird shit.

And there’s not a mark on her.

-5-

The old man recognized most of the teenagers outside 333 Southwest Park Avenue.  He knew the street kids and their suburban imitators (with their dirty jeans and clean fingernails). He knew which girls really liked girls and which ones pretended so they wouldn’t be bothered by boys. And he knew which ones cruised Stark Street (nicknamed Vaseline Alley for a reason), trading themselves to the after-work crowd for folding money.

He knew more about the teens awaiting admission to Klub Z than most men of 67 summers. Then again, how many senior citizens had spent two years bunking down in a parking lot –– which happened to be right next to Klub Z? Tonight, for the first time, there was more waiting for him on the crumbling cement than stolen grocery carts.

Dropping a duffel bag on the ancient orange truck’s bed, he smiled for the first time. His teeth were his own, but they were white and straight –– leading man perfect.

An electronic beat escaped whenever the club’s doors opened.  He was struck by an image of him walking in and standing at the juice bar. He would have been an unlikely customer. Technically an all-ages gay club, Klub Z attracted some trolls but nowhere near as many The City did in the ‘90s. Only last week, he’d read an interview with the most famous movie director in Portland who’d admitted to meeting his boyfriend there.

Sighing, the old man unlocked his truck. He didn’t know why the idea of dancing to such terrible music interested him. And the kids were even less appealing. They would have seen him as just another creepy old guy. But if they did manage a second glance, they would have come away confused.

His old-fashioned attire, and sun-spotted hands contrasted with an unlined face. Strolling to the truck, he’d been as spry as someone half his age. He sported oversized sunglasses despite the hour; their lenses were darker than his truck’s tinted windows. He’d bought the vehicle in early October –– it was the first he’d owned since Carter lost the White House.

When he was living outdoors, the club kids only noticed him with a mixture of pity and horror. Yet in August, he suddenly lost his taste for booze –– and he’d never done drugs, not even weed. By September he was holding down a job –– just calling up people and asking them what they thought about the governor. It only paid eight bucks an hour but minimum wage was all he needed. Sober he was able to fill out the paperwork to get food and a cheap hotel room covered by the state.

He knew the young hardly ever notice the old. Except for three months ago, when a young woman’s notice changed his life.

Getting into his truck, he closed the door with a creak and a slam before starting the rebuilt engine. Weaving through a downtown obstacle course of the drunk and the sober, he couldn’t stop grinning. He was going to California. And if he could find the girl, he knew she would notice him again. Of that he was certain.

-6-

Anderson grimaced as he sped past Hoag Hospital’s valet parking sign. One more reason to hate Newport. At least it was too late for that bullshit. Instead, he maneuvered the Suburban into a reserved spot and slipped his police placard onto the dash.

As a cop he’d been in enough hospitals to know how cold they were; he grabbed his coat before getting out. Slipping it on, his hands went into the pockets. The fingers of the right one briefly touched cold metal. When Magnol gave him the object, it was covered with blood. Now it was a kind of hope.

Walking toward the entrance, he put a hand out just before the outer doors automatically parted. Heading toward the admitting desk, Anderson felt diminished and inadequate. The reception area’s muted pastel paint didn’t alleviate the sorrow seeping through the walls. He slid his badge across the desk, where a thin Latina was eyeing the computer screen with the boredom of a veteran bureaucrat.

A moment later, he got the info he needed.

Detective Anderson? Your daughter is in room 410 –– and here the woman drew a line on a piece of paper before handing him the map, the elevator’s down the hall.

Thank you. The hallway was decorated with dancing purple whales. Pausing before the bank of elevators, he took a quick squirt of hand sanitizer from the dispenser, and pushed the button. Without even realizing it, he held his breath.

A minute later, he exited onto the fourth floor. Slipping past a waiting area populated by haggard loved ones dining on worry and prayer, Anderson was glad for his cop privileges.

The hospital had given Morgan a room so Magnol could interview her. Shared rooms didn’t exist at Hoag –– as he entered #410, he was grateful for the privacy. His daughter lay on her back, the sheet and blanket wrapped around her hips. Lank blonde hair formed a halo over a forehead spotted by perspiration.

Baby? His voice sounded unfamiliar.  Stepping closer, he paused with his hand a few inches from her shoulder. He’d been ready to wake her when he realized Magnol was wrong. There was a mark on her.

Faint red marks shaped like fingers encircled her throat. The asshole had tried to strangle his little girl. Bile came up from his guts and burned in his throat.

Morgan had saved him the trouble of killing the son of a bitch.

A dark sheet of glass was revealed between parted curtains. Daughter and father were reflected; his image recalling the frightening and frightened man he’d been when Morgan was twelve.

Baby? She stirred, and as he touched her arm, blinked. For at least the one-hundred thousandth time, Morgan’s blue eyes reminded him of her mother. How do you feel?

Like I’ve got the world’s worst hangover. She smiled sheepishly, then stretched her arms out. Daddy... Oh God, I can’t believe they dragged you out of Corona.

He twinged a bit at the way she said Daddy. Dropping into a chair by her side, Anderson recalled another anxious moment in another chair beside another hospital bed. Morgan had been premature. In a hurry even then. I’m fine. Uhmm –

Could I have some water? He got up, pouring a cup from the pitcher on the bedside table. Held it to her lips, although it probably wasn’t necessary. Wiping her mouth, he returned the cup before she added, I just got back, Dad, and I was gonna call ––

Anderson waved his arms. It’s okay. The way I was over Christmas, I don’t blame you. Last year, he’d spent four days up in Portland. They had spent the entire vacation arguing. He looked at her and asked, Why’d you come back?

It’s complicated.

Everything’s complicated. But you don’t have to make it harder... He sighed. "There’s a detective coming by. You can probably go