Dane Blaise: Flashback - Episodes 1 - 6

By Stephanie Queen

A Beachcomber Investigations Spin-off Serial

Episodes 1 through 6

A look into the past of Dane Blaise: How did he become the special ops legend, the man who other men talk about in awe? What secrets from his past still make him tick today?

A chance meeting with notorious local delinquent Dagmar Hunt when Dane was only fourteen years old sparked a four-year battle that would not end well for at least one of them.

Dane's need to protect and his need for justice didn't allow him to back down or let it go. Dane couldn't do anything differently than fight to win.

But it would cost him.

Before it was over, he would lose his innocence, gain his cynicism about love and romance and lose a piece of his soul forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephanie Queen
• Release date: Apr 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386871477

Stephanie Queen

Stephanie Queen has always been a writer. Ever since second grade when the Nuns of Sacred Heart School got her hooked by offering fame–though not fortune–and she won first prize in their story contest. That was her first publishing gig. After that Stephanie put writing mostly on the back burner while she built up a catalogue of life experiences. She went to UConn, got married, had two sons who could star as heroes in any lucky girl’s romance story, got a Masters degree at Harvard University, worked a few jobs–Math teacher, Keebler Elf and desk jockey at various cubicle farms doing bureaucratic things. Then she finally put writing stories back on the front burner. Since then, Stephanie has published more than forty novels and novellas. She teaches novel writing classes and also speaks at libraries, conferences and workshops on writing and publishing. “One of my all-time favorite things in the world is to hear from readers who enjoy my books. I love to write back, too. If you email me, I will reply!”

Book preview

1

I’ve always been Dane Blaise. Which means I’ve always been looked at with a mix of apprehension and awe by most people.

I was fourteen years old when I first made a mental note of this. And decided to embrace it. Capitalize on it. Run all the way to hell with it.

What the hell do you know, kid? the older boy said. Or I assumed he was older since he was standing out in front of the high school. I didn’t like him on sight. I’d just mentioned to him that classes were generally held inside the building. I’d been on my way home from a half day in eighth grade. It was another surfing day in Southern California.

I stopped walking. We were about the same height, but he probably had a few pounds on me. I was alone. The brainiac stood with three other boys: one shorter, one scrawnier, and one fat. None of them seemed anxious to improve their minds through a high school education.

The brains of the pack took a drag on his cigarette—another reason I didn’t like him—and after he puffed some smoke in my direction, he spat on the ground between us. About three and a half feet. I almost wish he spat at me. It would have been my excuse to punch him. I stood perfectly still, but I was tense with a strong urge to mess this guy up. I have no idea what got to me or why. Or I had no idea at the time.

The short boy laughed. I kept my eyes on shit for brains, but I could see the short kid’s jeering grin in my periphery. The other two boys moved in closer. I didn’t move. Not even a muscle twitch. I concentrated on the hand with the cigarette and the mouth. And the teeth inside the mouth. I wanted to knock them out.

It’s not that I was a violent kid. I wasn’t. It’s not that I looked for trouble or that I didn’t realize they could gang up on me. My mother would have screamed in horror if she’d seen me. I didn’t worry about any of that. All I knew was something about this kid was bothering me—bothering me bad.

You like getting beat up, kid? Or are you just plain stupid? the brain said.

I assumed it was a rhetorical question and didn’t answer. Kept my eye on his face and his hand with the cigarette. Kept the others in sight. Kept my tension to myself.

I don’t know about this kid, Dag. He’s something, the skinny kid said. I wanted to smile. But I didn’t. I knew they were up to no good. I didn’t know how I knew, and I didn’t know what they’d done, but I didn’t question my instinct.

The brain snorted. He’s gonna be something broken in a minute. Soon as I finish this butt. The others snickered. I noticed the skinny kid shift back a step. My respect went up a notch. But it was still lower than the curb.

They expected me to run scared. I spread my legs and folded my arms across my chest. The brain laughed and shook his head. Then he threw his butt in the grass. The others tensed. He looked me in the eye.

That’s when I saw it. The hesitation. The flicker of a question in his eyes. That was all I needed. I lashed one hand out to block his, then whipped my left leg up and caught him squarely in the face with my foot. The brainiac went down, and his friends jumped back in a stupor.

If I’d been wearing boots, there would have been teeth raining on the pavement. As it was, there was a lot of blood splattered on my sneakers. I spun to a stop and stood—hands across my chest again—and stared the others down. I focused on the scrawny kid. He stared back. The other two helped lift their brainy leader to his feet. He looked dazed and he was swearing, but he wasn’t coming after me. Probably had a broken nose.

What the hell are you? the scrawny kid said. Some kind of ninja?

I figured this was another rhetorical question.

The fat kid said, Let’s get Dag out of here. Shit, he’s bleeding everywhere.

The scrawny kid stood planted while the other two, half-carrying Dag, started toward a nearby car illegally parked at the curb.

Come on. Are you crazy? We can’t let anyone catch us; we need to get out of here. That snapped the scrawny kid from his trance. He broke eye contact and turned. As he walked away—in no hurry—he turned and said, I’m going to find out about you, kid.

I didn’t move, but I smiled. He stopped. And he smiled back. I like you, he said. You are the spunkiest badass kid I ever met.

I didn’t credit his observation at the time because who was he? I turned to walk across the street.

One thing, Ninja Boy. The scrawny kid stood outside the door of the car’s driver’s side. I didn’t stop, but he must have figured I was listening. You never saw us. The car door slammed.

I stopped. I couldn’t help it. A cold chill I can still remember rushed through me. I turned around as they pulled away and zeroed in on the license plate. I barely caught it. The car didn’t leave rubber, but they didn’t waste time driving off.

The undeniable sense of foreboding came over me and never left. I knew something was wrong—that they’d done something wrong—and I don’t mean that they skipped class. I had to find out what it was, and I had to do something about it. The fact that I was a fourteen-year-old kid never registered as a problem. At least not to me. I jogged home and made a call.

2

Ireported the whole story .

Who is this?

Dane Blaise, I said.

Oh yeah—Derek’s son. Just a minute.

I wanted to shout at the phone that I didn’t have a minute, but what was I in such a rush for? I felt the urgency humming through me like a vibration. Unmistakable. But I had no idea where it came from. Some kind of gut feeling I couldn’t get rid of. It seemed like more than a minute before the police chief came on the line, but I recognized his voice.

Hello, Dane. How are you? How’s your mom?

We’re good, but I’m calling to report a problem over at the high school. I expected him to ask me to explain, but instead the line went silent for a beat and then another. The vibration escalated to fear and a chill, but I didn’t let on. I waited. It was his turn to talk. I needed to keep my cool—no matter what—even if I felt like puking right then and there. I squeezed the receiver of the phone in my hand.

What did you hear?

Hear? Shit. I’m calling to report some kids I ran into out front of the high school. Threatened to rough me up—

How many were there? The police chief’s voice was all business, deeper and darker. I took a breath, struggling with the nausea in my gut, and deepened my voice.

Four.

Describe them.

I did.

Dane, I’m sending a car over there for you to bring you into the station.

I didn’t do anything— I blurted, and then shut my eyes, cursing in my head for losing my cool.

No, don’t worry. We want to talk to you. Have you look at some photos and identify the boys you saw. Did you get any names.

Dag. The leader’s name was Dag—that’s what the others called him.

The car is on the way. Don’t talk to anyone else about this.

What about my mother? I didn’t care how lame I sounded; she’d be worried. She worried all the time. When she wasn’t sad, she was worried about me.

I’ll call your mother.

The call ended, but I felt edgy and paced around. I couldn’t stand still. Forget about sitting. Something bad was going on. I felt it inside. I felt tight, like I was being squeezed, and I needed to do something about it. I couldn’t stand looking at the walls of our kitchen. Couldn’t stand listening to the clock tick, waiting. I pushed through the door and down the hallway to my parents’—my mom’s room. I had to look at him. I needed to see my dad’s picture, see his things where he left them. Mom hadn’t touched them: his shoes on the floor near the bed, his aftershave on the dresser, his baseball cap. I turned to his guitar on the stand in the corner. I stood in the middle of the room and closed my eyes until I swear I could feel him, and I breathed easier.

I’m doing good, Dad. Just like you told me. I said the words. I wanted to hear myself say them out loud. I wanted him to hear me.

The doorbell rang. I opened my eyes and took off for the front door.

At the station, the two uniforms walked me to the chief’s office. He’d been a friend of my dad. I guess a good friend, but I didn’t know him much. They left me at the door, and I stood there. Chief Paulson stood behind his