The Hobby: Part 1 & 2

By Pamela Swyers

As a teen, fitness instructor Haley Jo Smith was brutally attacked. Years later she seems to have the perfect life, but what secrets lie beneath the surface? Haley Jo continues her search for peace while dealing with some tough consequences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pamela Swyers
• Release date: Oct 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370604173

Pamela Swyers

Pam lives with her husband Bill in Gwinnett County, Georgia. She is the mother of three grown children and has dabbled in creative writing since she could hold a pen. Pam has written poetry, children’s stories and dramatic scripts but her passion and calling is penning fictional novels. Pam currently writes full time and has seven books in print, with more on the way. She can often be found toodling around NE Atlanta, doing book-signings and making appearances when she’s not working hard on her computer. Pam is a professional member of the Georgia Writers Association.

Book preview

Prologue

He had to die... the young girl cried over and over. Blue and red lights flickered across the nearby houses.

Finally the EMTs managed to get the young teen with the shaggy blond hair into the truck.

The police officer stifled back vomit as she looked at the body on the driveway, one cold hand over her mouth. She was too new at this to be immune to this much blood and gore.

I should've married Logan Barr when he asked. I'd be doing ladies’ luncheons and volunteering... shopping. Having an easy life. Officer Maura Newcome shook her head. Logan Barr had chased Maura all through their school days and was now quite a successful corporate lawyer. She had never thought twice about choosing her career over him. A fellow officer standing nearby said, Huh? but she just shook her head, dismissing him.

It was going to be a very long day, thought Maura Newcome. This poor girl. What had she been through? What had she seen?

What had she done?

1

My head was splitting.

The evening before I had, granted, partied a little too hard. For someone like me, it doesn't take much. More than two Cosmos or glasses of wine and I was feeling no pain. At Shala's party I had let it go a bit too far. How often did one turn twenty-five? There was ample reason to celebrate. Shala had fought a battle with breast cancer and had kicked its ass. Every birthday after was reason to celebrate, but especially this one... one whole year cancer free.

Shala's my best friend. When she was diagnosed with cancer I thought I'd been kicked in the gut. I was scared. And scared as I was, I couldn't imagine what it was like for her. I determined myself to be a good best friend and see her through it, and somehow, I managed to do so. It was over. At least we hoped.

I was trying to get back into my normal routine, back where my life was totally focused on me and my own goals. It felt selfish and liberating at the same time. There were many goals I set for myself each year, some I could share with others, and some I just couldn't, never could and never would. Nobody, not even Shala, would understand.

My day job was helping people sweat their fat off. I worked at a local gym called Women First that specialized, supposedly, in allowing women of all ages, shapes, sizes and weights to work out in a judgment-free zone. No men to stare at you, either with lust or disgust. I'd earned certificates for leading aerobics (both low and high), Pilates, yoga and salsa dance classes. Having been a fatty, (heavy person?) in a previous life myself, I supposed I did have a bit more compassion than some. Having a job that also kept me physically challenged was a huge benefit in keeping myself fit and trim. Unlike most people, I didn't have to fit in a workout on my days off. I only had one full day off a week, and the rest of the week I sort of worked in spurts, coming and going alongside the class schedules.

I did have an interesting hobby though, most of which I had laid aside altogether over the past twenty or so months as I spent all of my free time shadowing my friend, running errands for her, holding her hand, whatever she needed. My life was much too distracted by her illness to focus on anything else, and I'd had to cut back my hours in the beginning. Once Shala began to recover from her surgery and regain her strength, I began to work more regular hours again.

My parents had both died in a car accident when I was nineteen and had left me an insurance policy pay-out that helped me live better than I would've been able to otherwise. I wasn't uber-rich, but I'd be able to live my life doing what I wanted to do, which was more than most people got.

I sat down in front of the TV with my first cup of coffee of the day and watched news coverage of the most recent string of murders in the Atlanta area. It was horrifying. If I didn't know better, I'd be afraid to walk out of my front door on a daily basis. Crime had been on the rise steadily over the last ten or so years. The economy was in the crapper and it seemed more and more people were willing to set aside their morals or ethics (if they had any to begin with) and just plain take what they wanted.

But did I know better? All I really knew was that I was trained in self-defense and if attacked would not be afraid to defend myself, even using crazy as a weapon if necessary. I'd been molested as a child and attacked, okay raped, as a teenager, just once. That was all it took to determine myself never to be a victim again.

In all honesty, the rape was not the first time in my life to feel violated. I was determined it would be the last.

2

What have you got going today, Hay? Shala asked me. We were talking on our cell phones, both of us in our respective cars. My car had a gadget where the cell phone seemed to become one with my car as soon as I entered it and if the phone rang while I was driving, I'd simply push a button on my steering wheel to answer it. Worked pretty well most of the time. I assumed she still had some gadget or another attached to her ear making her look like a switchboard operator. Ah, technology.

Shala (and those who knew me best) called me Hay. My name is Haley Jo Smith (yes, Smith). A joke amongst my friends was yelling, Hey, Hay! to get my attention.

Two aerobics classes, then a couple hours off, then a dance class at seven this evening. You? I mentally cursed a tiny red car that looked like a child's toy as it cut in front of me.

Today marks my second week back at work. I can't tell you how wonderful and yet also awful that feels. We both chuckled. Shala worked in an accountant's office as office manager.

You want to meet at Dailey's for a slice after my last class? Dailey's was our favorite hangout and home of the absolute best pizzas, sandwiches, calzones and of course, mixed drinks, in the city. It was also geographically located nearly exactly between Shala's apartment and mine.

Sure, sounds great. I might actually get a slice tonight. Sooo tired of salads, Shala sighed.

I hear ya. I had gone vegan several years before, not because of my love for animals, but because I knew that one of my life-goals was to be a lean-mean machine and I'd read up on how bad dairy and meat can be for you, especially these days when everything was shot up with steroids, antibiotics and God knew what all else. One could, of course, choose to eat the higher quality organic products, but once I began to research, the stories of animal cruelty had also touched my heart. I knew that diet, like religion, politics and many other things, was a choice each person had to make. I never judged my carnivorous friends, just knew it was no longer a lifestyle for me.

Shala had been a big-time carnivore until she was in the midst of battling cancer. She became almost totally vegetarian during her treatment, but now that she was feeling better, she began to eat a little meat here and there. Shala had always been a pixie. Or maybe a Chihuahua. Small but tough as nails. Weight had never been an issue for her. I tried not to hate her for it.

See you around nine, I said, and we disconnected.

Every time I ordered a vegan slice of pizza it was as if I'd asked the chef to cut his own head off and place it on my plate. After several minutes of explanations I thought perhaps the waitress had it down right. You'd think they'd know me by now, only their staff had a large rate of turn-over so just when I'd get to know one of them, they'd move on to greener pastures and I'd find myself having to explain what a vegan slice looks like.

As I picked at my second slice, not really feeling all that hungry, I sipped on a Cosmo and listened to Shala. She was ranting about her hospital bills. I could just hit someone. She had insurance and still the bills were piling up higher than her head.

So now I'm wondering if I need to get a second job, she was saying.

That really burned me up. I can front you a little if you need it, I began.

No, not yet anyway. I'll figure something out. I just keep paying them $10 a month, but they still call. I told them they'd get theirs as soon as I had mine.

Shala had been with her boyfriend, a banker, for a few years. He'd seemed like a great guy. Until she got sick. He broke it off and Shala was left to suffer through everything alone.

All this crime in this stinking city... he'd make a perfect victim, I thought.

I don't suppose Danny has offered any financial help? I asked, hopefully.

Nah. Why should he? He's done with me. He did however, comment on my latest photo on Facebook. He said 'looking good.'

Ass-hat. Watch him try to start seeing you again. I was livid. How shallow could some people be? Oh, fight cancer all on your own, then if you make it and begin to look good to me again, then I'll come back around... G-r-r-r-r.

Have you started your martial arts training again? I felt so bad you gave it up while you were, uh, helping me out and all.

I will this week, I said. No need to feel bad at all. I no longer took martial arts classes but I had to tell people something about where I spent my free time.

A few mornings later, I flipped on the news and saw that there'd been another murder. Good God, I thought, and turned up the volume. Daniel Aaron Buckner was found dead in his apartment late last night after a co-worker called the police, concerned that the man had not shown up for work that day. Police went to his apartment to check on him and found his door unlocked and Mr. Buckner face down on his kitchen floor. Cause of death has not yet been determined...

Danny. Shala's Danny was dead.

3

I answered the doorbell, not surprised at all to see Shala standing there, tears running down her face.

Oh, sweetie, I said, and grabbed her into a hug. I heard. Do they know any more?

Autopsy will be done some time this week. That's all I know. The police actually came and questioned me. They think he was killed during the day, during my work hours. I have an airtight alibi. Can you believe they'd suspect me? Of course they do. There's times I could have killed him with my bare hands... she mumbled and headed to the coffee maker.

After filling her cup she sat at the table and sipped at her coffee, wiping a hand across her face occasionally.

I know you loved him, but please don't... don't waste any more tears on him. After the year you've had? After what he did to you? I was having a hard time finding my compassion.

Danny, he was so alive... we were... everything to each other once. I just can't believe it. She pulled a wadded tissue out of her pocket and blew her nose.

I patted her hand and made soothing noises, all the while steaming inside. I didn't enjoy the emotion of hate but I felt it welling up inside of me. I hated Danny. Just hated him. He was dead and I still hated him. If I closed my eyes, I could picture him dying on the floor, head bashed in... I had to get control. Just breathe.

The work week went well. It was November in Atlanta which usually meant that one day it might be sixty-seven degrees or it might be thirty-five and bitter cold. This year, the weeks following Danny's death were unseasonably cold for fall in Atlanta. People pulled out their big winter coats, scarves and hats from storage and walked around looking like children who'd been punished but had never been given a reason why. The South wasn't supposed to do this to us.

A couple of my classes had been cancelled (since Atlantans cannot go out if the temperature drops below fifty) so I asked Shala if she wanted a drink. We met at Dailey's. When she came in I noted the dark circles around her eyes, the general air of sadness about her. It made me feel sick, impotent. I wanted so badly to help her. She'd been such a help to me, more than once.

Twelve years ago while in middle school, Shala, already ensconced in the chair next to mine for the year in history class, became my life-long best friend.

Our history teacher had an air about him. He had a reputation that was sort of dangerous, with no specific reason attached. If he told you to do something, spoke to you directly for any reason, your heart would beat faster and you'd by God do whatever it was he wanted you to do.

One afternoon we were walking home from school (because some kids still did in those days in our small town away from the big city, and we hated the bus). She was coming home with me for a sleepover. Our friendship was relatively new at this point. We'd swapped notes folded into convoluted shapes back and forth to each other all through class, praying not to be caught. Important stuff on those notes, like Hey what's up? Me? Not much and other earth-shattering things. We'd decided we liked each other immediately, kindred spirits.

As we neared the last block to my house, a car approached from behind, going far slower than it should have been. Walk faster, Shala said.

I looked over my shoulder and my heart began to beat harder.

I think it's Mr. Osbourne, Shala said.

What? What's he doing? Should we turn and wave or what? I said. Teachers were creepy enough in school, but this following you down the street thing was just too much.

Follow my lead, she said. She was about three inches shorter than me but so much braver, I always thought. My little bodyguard.

She turned and waved and the car pulled up and stopped.

Mr. Osbourne? Shala said. What's up? She didn't look frightened at all. I was always creeped out by the guy and it was worse on the street like this.

He rolled down his window and said, Ladies. Walking home? Need a lift?

We're almost there, Shala said. Thanks, anyway. She grabbed my hand and in just a few feet we came to the turn at my street and we ran, hand in hand until we'd turned the corner and got nearly all the way to my house. We stopped, breathless and turned. He wasn't there. I guess we were too much trouble.

The sleepover was great; we didn't sleep a wink. We stayed up all night telling ghost stories and making fun of people we didn't like at school (mostly bullies) and laughed and laughed. I couldn't remember ever laughing so hard or so much. We'd been best friends since that night.

The following morning Mr. Osbourne was in jail. He'd picked up an eleven-year-old girl, raped her and left her for dead.

After a lot of investigation, the police found he had a history (pardon the pun) of molesting young girls. How he'd been hired as a history teacher, we never could fathom. He was the topic of discussion for years in our little town. That began a deep distrust of men. It was just the beginning.

After that, I always thought of Shala as my savior and body guard. She was my protector and best friend. There was nothing I wouldn't do to protect her. Nothing.

4

My last class was over and I still felt the need to work off some frustration. It was five and I didn't have any plans for the evening. Idle hands, and all that.

I went over to the punching bag at the gym, put on my set of red boxing gloves and began to pummel it, over and over. I saw on it the faces of people from my past... people who had hurt me, disappointed me, let me down. I saw Danny's face and slammed several punches right on his nose. Sweat poured down my face, my back. Every muscle in my body ached but I couldn't stop. Time lost all meaning. Finally I sort of came to and realized I was on the floor. My face was wet with tears. I didn't cry, hadn't for a very long time. Sure enough the tears were there. I wiped them on my towel.