Shooter: Burnout, #1

By Dahlia West

Chris "Shooter" Sullivan has returned to his home town of Rapid City, South Dakota to pick up the pieces of his life shattered by a roadside bomb in Iraq. He only wants to focus on holding what's left of his old unit together, running his garage where he builds custom bikes and cars, and pretending that his murdered father's motorcycle gang doesn't exist.

Hayley Turner is a young woman with her own traumatic past. Fresh off the bus from Nowhere, USA, all she wants is a job and a place to live, until it's time for her to leave again. She doesn't want to make friends, or enemies, least of all the ex-Army Ranger who obviously doesn't like her. She bristles under his watchful eye. He's even got her convinced she's bad news.

But circumstances force two people who don't need anyone to need each other more and more. The more Chris gets to know Hayley, the harder it is to stay detached. And the more Hayley gets to know Chris, the more she realizes she's been alone for so long she might never recover from it. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dahlia West
• Release date: Apr 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781498919883

Book preview

Chapter 1

She jerked awake as a hand squeezed her knee. A hand that was a little too friendly. She opened her eyes to see a pair of brown ones looking down on her. Brown eyes set into a round face topped by a receding hairline. The bus driver also had a look that was a little too friendly. She immediately moved her knee away from his grip.

Well, hey there, darlin’, he said, amused. This is your stop.

She blinked and looked out the window that was covered with road dust. The bus was old and the seats were starting to show their wear, but outside the window was a bright, sunny April morning. She gathered her duffel from the overhead compartment, having been unwilling to stow it underneath the bus. Everything she owned was in that bag and not having it within arm’s reach was unthinkable. Several other passengers were getting up, gathering their own belongings, and she was grateful when the handsy bus driver was forced to head back up to the front to begin letting people off.

Compared to the interior of the bus, the crisp spring air was welcoming even if it was only in the 50’s right now. The city was always at the mercy of the wind. It could turn a hot day bearable, a mild day chilly, and rip the breath from your lungs in winter, so said her guidebook. She pulled her hoodie a little tighter around her against the chill and headed toward Main Street. Her travel guide was stowed securely in her duffel and she was confident that she could navigate the streets now without it. She’d picked up the book on the shelf at the bookstore two days ago.

The photo of the Black Hills National Forest on the cover had caught her eye and she thumbed through it, settling on Rapid City as the closest she could get and still feel anonymous. Rapid City boasted 67,000 people. Considerably smaller than Denver, which was more than ten times larger. But the bustling downtown area made her feel comfortable. Safe. She wanted to be around people, just not be overwhelmed by them.

She slung the black bag over her shoulder and out of habit fingered the bills in her jeans pocket. The rest of her money was stored in several different locations both on her person and in her bag so if the bag was lost or stolen she wouldn’t be completely broke. And if she had the unfortunate luck to be robbed on the bus, as she had four years ago, she had a chance of convincing him the fifty some odd dollars in her front pocket really was all she had. She was clearly traveling by bus, wearing cheap canvas shoes, and, as was her usual, a pair of nearly worn out jeans. So any potential mugger might actually believe her.

She could afford better shoes and clothes, but she lived in perpetual fear of being broke again, as she had when she’d finally gotten off the bus in Dallas with only the clothes in her bag. Going to the police had certainly not been an option, so she’d avoided her mugger as best she could, darting into the bus station and locking herself in a bathroom stall for an entire night until she could be sure he would have moved on.

Those had been terrifying days. Days when she hadn’t yet gotten used to being on the road, without a past, totally cut off from everything and everyone. Earning money had seemed an impossible task. Those first few days were spent searching for employment by day and returning to the familiar bus station at night. Even though she wasn’t a ticketed passenger, no one seemed to give her shit for sleeping in the terminal.

She’d almost lost it and called her Mom and Dad, but that fifth day the clouds parted and she finally had a clear path again. She’d walked into a diner. Not shabby, but not trendy, either. She’d been worn out and hungry from eating out of the vending machine with the few coins she’d found in a jacket pocket in her duffel. The owner turned out to be an older, no nonsense woman who took one look at her and had probably immediately decided she was a junkie. Sensing the interview was going badly, she’d gotten up to leave when the sleeve of her shirt had hiked up and the slightly purple, then yellowing, bruise left by the mugger on the bus had become visible.

The woman, Shirley, had snagged her wrist, gently but firmly, and frowned down at marks. He gonna come looking for you? Shirley had asked quietly.

For a moment, that horrible night, not the night of the mugging, but that other, more awful, more terrifying night, the night that had seemed to stretch out forever until she was convinced she was in Hell and that every moment was an eternity of pain and fear, flashed in her mind and her breath caught.

He- I can’t- I can’t let him find me, she’d whispered.

Shirley had nodded. Well, as long as he don’t show up here, talking sweet with flowers and sorries, and you decide to take him back leaving me high and dry.

It had taken a moment to process Shirley’s words and finally it clicked into place that Shirley thought she was running from an abusive man. Sensing an opportunity, but far too tired and hungry and scared to feel much guilt over it, she’d latched onto that story and held on tightly.

What’s your name, hon? Shirley had asked.

Elizabeth, she’d replied quickly as Shirley pulled the sleeve back down, covering the bruises and patting her arm gently.

It had been Shirley’s idea to dole out cash for her wages under the table to keep her whereabouts a secret from the phantom lover with the bad temper. Since waitressing was mostly a cash business anyway, it wasn’t much of a leap to keep all the money, rather than just the tips, a secret. That arrangement had worked for six months until she decided it was time to move on. For safety’s sake. For Shirley’s sake. She had wandered into a convenience store, plucked a map of Arizona out of the rack, gave Shirley ample notice, and bought a bus ticket for Phoenix the same day.

That story had worked with Shirley and so she kept using it, through Phoenix and then backtracking to Albuquerque. After that was a blur of medium sized cities, sometimes two or three a year. Denver had been beautiful and she had been loath to leave it, but it was time. Even if sometimes she got tired. Even if, every so often, she thought about what it would be like to just go home and let whatever happened, happen. But she might not be the only one to suffer if she pointed her feet toward home again.

So she kept moving. Different cities, different states. Friendly, but not too friendly, which was important in earning tips. She’d done a variety of jobs that paid in cash. Waitressing in small restaurants and diners was often the obvious choice, but sometimes it had been too difficult to find employment with someone willing to overlook her lack of a driver’s license and social security card, so she’d turned to bars and, once in Utah, had washed hair at a tiny salon.

The salon work hadn’t been as demanding as waiting tables, but the environment was a disastrous fit. Too many women asking too many questions, making it nearly impossible to be anonymous. Since then, she’d stuck to bars and diners, which normally had a pretty steady turnover rate for employees. No one thought twice about a girl who only worked for four, sometimes six months, and then headed off to greener pastures.

Nowhere longer than six months, that was the rule. It kept everyone safer. Made everything easier.

She adjusted her bag and spied a metal newspaper dispenser on the corner. Depositing a few quarters and plucking out a paper, she found herself a chain coffee house, bought a latte with extra whipped cream, and settled down at a table by the window to look through the classifieds.

By midafternoon, the chill had subsided and it was now in the low 60’s. She shed her jacket, stuffing it inside the duffel, and smoothed out her hair while she was standing in front of Maria’s. It was a small little bar just off the main drag. Not shabby, not dirty, not too clean though either. From the few motorcycles parked in the lot, she figured it was rougher trade than a diner.

She’d been to two diners and a restaurant already, but none looked too promising. Most people who worked hard to build up their small businesses were not too keen on jeopardizing it by hiring an undocumented worker. One man was willing to hire her. Judging by the sheer number of Hispanics working in the back he seemed no stranger to illegal labor, but she’d gotten a bad vibe from him. His eyes had continually made their way to her breasts during the interview and she could practically hear him asking himself how much she’d be willing to do to keep her existence in Rapid City under the radar.

She’d politely told him she’d consider it, but that the base wage was too low (lie) and quickly got out of there.

Bars were interesting. Especially bars that catered to bikers, cowboys, and sundry blue collar type people. They sometimes had their fair share of skirting the law, either with fire codes or liquor permits, and certainly a good portion of their clientele had been on the wrong side of the law on more than one occasion. They didn’t ask too many questions if you made it clear you weren’t keen on telling and, as long as you were friendly and worked your ass off, management was generally fine with their employees keeping personal details to themselves. After all, you weren’t really there to socialize anyway. You were there to work and these people understood the value and necessity of work.

She opened the door, stepped into the bar. It was relatively dark compared to the bright blue sky outside and she silently prayed that a woman had some position of power at a place named Maria’s. She had a momentary pang of longing for her well-manicured college campus with its brick facades and brilliant white columns before she shook the memory away. That had been a lifetime ago. No. A dozen lifetimes ago, at least. She squared her shoulders and surged forward.

When her eyes adjusted to the low light, she was satisfied with what she saw. The place was medium sized, bigger on the inside than the small entry way suggested. It was clean with tables and chairs that didn’t show any obvious signs of wear and tear. The bar was a work of wooden art, gleaming and polished to within an inch of its life, made out of some kind of light, honey colored wood that made that part of the bar better lit. A mirror hung on the wall behind it, also helping with the lighting, running from the top of the waist high storage cabinets to the ceiling and lined with glass shelving that held sparkling liquor bottles. A jukebox sat in the corner, near the short hallway that led to the restrooms, according to the signs, and above that were framed insignias for every branch of the military.

This bar clearly catered to biker and military types. Maybe or maybe not cowboys as well, but hearing Waylon on the jukebox, she figured it probably did, even if there weren’t giant pairs of longhorns hanging on the walls like in Texas or Colorado bars.

There were a few patrons that she supposed were more than likely regulars, nursing bottles at the bar. The booths and round tables further back were empty. There were also four pool tables, but no one was playing. A tall, platinum blonde looked up from washing glasses and narrowed her eyes.

There was no mistaking the once over she was taking her time performing.

After the diners had been a bust, she’d changed out of her chocolate brown knee length skirt and into a pair of low slung jeans. As a rule, she didn’t really enjoy calling attention to her body in any way if she could help it. Diners were more lax in their expectations, preferring sensible shoes and comfortable clothing and, as such, were the kinds of places she preferred to work.

Bikers preferred women to look like women, with tighter clothes, higher heels, and far more cleavage than she would be able to show. She did have the requisite jeans, but she drew the line at short skirts and high heels. She’d have preferred a looser fitting shirt, but personal preference had to be put on the back burner. Looking the part was far more important. She needed a steady course of income and a place to stay and preferred these be secured sooner rather than later.

She’d swapped her canvas shoes for black boots with a rounded toe and low chunky heel, enough to be slightly feminine without causing discomfort when on her feet for long stretches of time. They were the only boots she owned, though they were scuffed from years of wear, they were serious boots. They hadn’t been cheap and were made to last for far longer than she’d already had them.

She had on her blue, fitted, long sleeved knit shirt, which was now a little warm for the pleasant afternoon. That was alright though. Perfect actually, for her purposes, as she tugged one of the cuffs down to her wrist. The blonde didn’t miss the movement with her shrewd eyes and the girl tried not to smile. She strode forward and dropped her duffel on the floor with a resounding thump. The patrons turned on their stools and imitated the blonde’s perusal. The girl ignored them, keeping her eyes on her mark. The blonde simply waited.

You’re looking for a waitress, the girl said matter-of-factly.

That’s about right, the blonde finally said, shaking her shoulder length hair. Apparently she wasn’t immediately turned off by the sight in front of her because she motioned to the girl’s bag. Grab your gear and let’s talk in the office.

The blonde shouted for someone named Tommy and within moments a tall, lanky middle-aged man with a slight beard and big paunch came sauntering through the swinging doors. Take over for a few, will ya? the blonde asked. Got an interview.

Tommy got in his once-over and then nodded to the blonde.

The office was small, but well maintained. No mountains of paperwork leaning precariously, no trash littered about. Only one desk and two chairs though, indicating that this woman was the person in charge unless she shared the desk with someone, and the girl said a silent thank you.

There were dozens of framed pictures on the wall of people, bikes, people on bikes, people standing next to bikes, and a large, flatly secured Harley Davidson flag mounted to the wall behind the desk.

What’s your name? the blonde asked, taking a seat in the more expensive, more well-padded chair.

The young woman dropped her bag again and took the other chair. Hayley, she announced.

I’m Maria. Where you from, Hayley?

Hayley took approximately 2.5 seconds to size up her mark. This office was no nonsense. Ordered, clean, and neat. The woman before her might like her hair silky and bleached and her nails long and manicured, but she was somewhere around forty or forty-five and, while she didn’t exactly look like the rode-hard-and-put-away-wet-too-many-times type, she definitely wasn’t going to be one for sob stories. She just wasn’t the motherly type. Or at least not like Hayley’s mother, at any rate.

Just got off the bus from Denver, Hayley replied.

Hmm. What’d you do in Denver?

Just recently I was a waitress. In a diner downtown. I can give you the number. They’ll give me a good reference. But you’d probably rather have the number of the Bar Kay, also in Denver. I went by Crystal there, though. That’s my middle name. Hayley Crystal.

Hmm, Maria said again.

Hayley squared her shoulders. I don’t have ID, Hayley admitted, better to just get that out of the way. Left it in Denver.

Left it in Denver, Maria repeated. Social security card?

Left that, too.

"Well, Hayley, the older woman said, emphasizing that she in no way believed that was the younger woman’s Christian name. What do you have?"

A good pair of boots for being on my feet all day and a really reliable alarm clock. An alarm clock known as insomnia.

Maria considered this. Just got off the bus. Means you don’t have a vehicle.

No, Ma’am, but like I said, I’ve got a good pair of boots and they were made for walking.

Maria grinned in spite of herself. And if I gave you a drug test?

"I could pass it right now. Or any time you feel like giving me one."

Maria lifted an eyebrow. Mind showing me your arms?

Hayley faltered. Or at least pretended to. Maria raised that eyebrow even higher. Finally, slowly, Hayley lifted her arms and yanked up her sleeves revealing deep bruises that were clearly a few days old and already fading. I’m not a charity case, Hayley said indignantly. I’ll work.

Well, I don’t hire slackers, Maria supplied. Didn’t hit you in the face, though, she observed. Which means you can start tomorrow. I can only put you on days for now, Maria informed Hayley. Other girls got priority.

Hayley nodded, That’s fine. And truly it was. Walking home in the dark wasn’t high on her list of relished activities and she suspected that in Rapid City, like in most small towns, the buses stopped working after dark. If she worked nights, she’d have to take a cab home and that would take a chunk out of her nightly earnings.

Hayley had watched her spending for years, carefully monitoring expenses, and choosing only the cheapest places to live that were still considered relatively safe. She had some savings, though not in any bank, of course. But money wouldn’t last forever and the only way she could be absolutely assured to stay ahead of disaster was to keep working, even if it was days in a bar which would be slow as hell.

Days are pretty quiet, Maria told her. Nights, when you get to ’em, can be rowdy.

Hayley nodded sagely. I can handle rowdy.

Maria glanced down at the girl’s arms. I bet. She met Hayley’s eyes again. You keep your own bank and cash out at the end of your shift. If your receipts don’t match your totals, you pay out of pocket. Happens three times and you’re out, whether you paid me or not. If you work out on days, I’ll switch you to some nights.

Hayley nodded. Nights sucked, but nights were money and a diner job might open up soon, anyway. She’d just keep an eye out.

You’re late three times, you’re fired.

Another nod. Apparently Maria was big on threes.

And, she continued, not that it’s any of my business as long as it doesn’t affect your job, but I’d refrain from going out with anyone you meet in here.

I’ve sworn off men.

Heard that before.

Not from me.

The truth was the thought of a man coming within two feet of her occasionally made bile rise in Hayley’s throat. She was grateful that it was only occasionally now, rather than all the time.

Maria eyed Hayley one final time and pushed the folded paper across the desk. Got a place to stay?

Hayley shook her head. That’s next on my list.

Shift starts at 10:00 tomorrow. Don’t be late, Maria warned.

That early? Hayley asked.

Got a small grill. Serve sandwiches and burgers for lunch and dinner.

Hayley nodded her understanding. She hiked her duffel onto her shoulder and thanked Maria.

Being so late in the afternoon, finding a place within walking distance of Maria’s proved more than a little difficult. The possibilities for rent paid in cash were few and far between, even on the edge of town. Hayley gave up looking for the day and found a cheap-as-dirt no-tell motel six blocks from the bar and settled into a room that smelled like corn chips and sweat. She struggled to drag the dresser in front of the door, which was already locked and chained. Stripping off her clothes, she stepped into a hot shower and felt her aching muscles give way to the onslaught.

What she’d seen of Rapid City today, touring the city by bus and by foot, she’d liked. The people were polite, but not overly friendly, and the weather was pleasant since she’d skipped winter altogether.

If things worked out with housing and a steady day job, she could easily stay a whole six months here. She washed her hair and carefully arranged a back story for herself repeating details over and over until she emerged from the shower as Hayley Turner, 26, from Denver, Colorado. With a mom at home and a father who worked in engineering, both living in Phoenix. A fair bit of that was true. She was 26, and her mom stayed at home while her father was, in fact, an engineer, though not in Phoenix.

She dried off methodically, carefully positioning her body so she was not facing the mirror. There were times when she did look in the mirror. Hours, days, had been lost with Hayley unable to look away from the straight, raised white lines on her chest and the more purplish-hued jagged ones on her belly. But today was not one of those days.

She had to find a place to live and had a new job to learn and today was not a day for wallowing. Not if she wanted to sleep as much as she could. And she did, want to sleep. That was her last thought after she set her travel alarm clock (another bit of truth there), just in case, and drifted into unconsciousness as soon as her head hit the pillow.

Chapter 2

Unsurprisingly, Hayley was awake before her alarm went off. She silenced it preemptively and staggered to the bathroom to brush her hair and teeth. Sleep was always an iffy scenario at the best of times and she was pleased that she’d managed to exhaust herself so much that she had only woken a few times to check the dresser blocking the door and check the window was locked.

She dressed slowly, in the same jeans but a different long sleeved shirt. She pulled the dresser away from the door, shouldered her duffel bag that had been carefully re-packed, and headed out to hoof it the six blocks to Maria’s, leaving early enough to stop for a soda and a Danish along the way.

The afternoon passed quickly, with Hayley getting a tour of the bar from Maria before setting to work schlepping orders from the grill to the few patrons who stopped in at random times to eat and grab a quick beer.

Maria had eyed her duffel as she’d entered the bar and took that to mean that Hayley had not found suitable digs in such a short amount of time. I might be able to set you up with something, Maria had said off-handedly, but Hayley, from experience, said nothing because sometimes people said things and didn’t mean them or they just didn’t work out, and there wasn’t any point in getting your hopes up until there was a reason to get your hopes up.

Toward the end of her shift, the front door opened letting in the light of another beautiful spring day. Hayley couldn’t make out the customer with the glare of the sunlight in her eyes, but plucked her pad out of her apron and took a step forward to come around from behind the bar. She paused, though, when Maria called out, Hey, Shooter, loudly from where she was stocking the fridge with local craft beers.

He came more fully into the bar, glancing around the area. His eyes passed easily over the patrons, lingering slightly on Hayley, who immediately looked to Maria. The man’s eyes came to rest on Maria as an easy smile settled onto his face.

Maria, he said, purposefully walking up to the bar.

Here, Maria said, lifting a half full case of Bud and shoving it into his arms. Help me with this.

He grunted, but it was a slightly amused grunt, and Maria picked up a second case of bottles and headed off toward the back while Hayley grabbed a cloth and began wiping down tables.

* * *

That her? Chris ‘Shooter’ Sullivan asked, setting his burden down in the stockroom next to Maria’s crate.

Yep.

What’s her story?

Sad and tragic and unknown to me, Maria replied almost disinterestedly.

Chris offered her a lazy grin. Well, if you don’t know it, how do you know it’s sad and tragic?

Aren’t they all? Maria said somewhat sarcastically, but with a slight sympathetic edge. It’s her first day. Can’t vouch for her one way or the other. Just come in from Denver on the bus line. Spent the night over at the Rainbow Motel.

Chris grunted. Shit hole.

But cheap, Maria added. I figure you having that rental house right next door to your own, could keep an eye on her in case she’s trouble. She’s got trouble. Don’t mean she is trouble. No way for me to know just yet.

Chris frowned. What kind of trouble?

Man trouble. Of the physical variety.

Chris’ jaw flexed. Maria knew that he had a low tolerance for bullshit and an even lower tolerance for men who put their hands on women. Especially tiny wisps of females like that.

Says her name’s Hayley, Maria declared, racking some bottles.

Guess that means that’s not her name.

Doubtful. But she’ll answer to it, nonetheless, and I’m paying her cash so that’s all I can call her.

Chris’ frowned deepened. Jesus, Maria. This girl could be anyone.

Maria shrugged and headed off to the office with Chris close on her heels. "Girls come and go. Especially round here. She starts trouble, she’s gone. But I’m hard up for someone who’ll work days for shit money. If I pull Miranda or Denise off nights, they’re likely to set the place on fire in protest and I just have too many headaches right this minute. I have a job, she needs a job. Simple as that.

Speaking of shit money, Maria continued. I don’t know how much she’d be able to pay you. If she works out, I’ll put her on nights in a few weeks, but if she’s staying at the Rainbow, I’d say she’s not got much. Maria nodded to the duffel on the floor in the corner. That’s hers. Reckon it’s all she owns, seeing as how she came in on the bus. Didn’t want to leave it at the motel in case it got swiped.

Chris eyed the bag.

Your place is furnished, which she’s gonna need, Maria reminded him. Up to you to work out whether or not you’ll take her on and how much you want for rent if you do. None of my business. She doesn’t have any I.D. though, least ways none that she’ll produce.

You want to end up dead in your office, Maria? Chris chastised.

Maria snorted. I could pound that little twig into the ground if I had a mind to. And I’ll remind you that somebody already did. She didn’t flinch when I mentioned a drug test and for what it’s worth I believe her that she could pass it. I’ve hired enough users over the years to spot one right off. I did call her boss in Denver. Knows her as Crystal. Chris shook his head and rolled his eyes at Maria. Says that’s her middle name, Maria countered, grinning.

Damn it, Maria.

Don’t look at me like that, Maria snapped. You hired that skinny kid a while back.

Chris scowled. He had hired a lanky kid who’d had to walk a dirtbike to Burnout for some parts. He’d gotten the bike in trade and whatever the kid had traded for it, he’d gotten the worse end of the deal. The bike was a piece of crap and, worse yet, the kid could barely afford a spark plug. Chris put the plug in one hand and a broom in the other. Emilio had turned out to be his name and he was a good investment, to boot. He was a fast learner, didn’t mind working for shit pay plus dirtbike parts, and one day he’d make halfway decent mechanic. But just because Chris had gotten lucky didn’t mean Maria would. In fact, she’d gotten screwed hiring lowlifes more often than it ever worked out for her.

Anyway, Maria continued. Her boss vouches for her. She worked for him for almost five months. Never late, no drama, kept her head down. He never mentioned a boyfriend and therefore I didn’t ask.

In case it was him.

Maria shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. It’s not like he’s gonna admit to beating on her if he did. But he didn’t seem overly interested in her or her whereabouts, so my guess is he was just her boss. I’m not running some kind of halfway house here, Shooter. Amanda took off, left me high and dry. The girl wants to work and if she’s laying low from her old man it’s none of my never mind. She’s not your responsibility other than as your tenant. If you take her on. Her job here’s got nothing to do with you. But I don’t know too many people that have a place for rent within walking distance. She doesn’t work out, we both get burned. But I need a waitress and you need a renter."

Chris sighed and looked up at the ceiling. All right. But if she gives you any shit here, you let me know so I know what kind of shit I can expect on my end.

Deal.

* * *

Hayley was refreshing a regular named Milo’s coffee when she both felt and heard heavy boots crossing the wooden floor, coming toward her. She turned slightly to see the man Maria had called Shooter. He stopped in front of her and crossed his arms in front of his chest. He had a tattoo on his right forearm, but Hayley didn’t get a good look.

Can I get you something? she asked him.

No, he replied curtly.

She frowned up at him. He had brown hair that was just barely long enough to get a little bit of a wave to it. His eyes were hazel and glittering hard at her. She couldn’t think what she would have done wrong since until now she’d never so much as spoken to him.

She considered asking when he suddenly said, You looking for a place?

Hayley was startled and looked past the man toward the bar for Maria, but she wasn’t there. Yeah, she finally replied, bringing her eyes back to him.

I have one. About six blocks from here. In the opposite direction of the Rainbow. Which is where you’re staying, right?

She nodded.

Alone? he asked sharply.

What?

You stay at the Rainbow alone? ’Cause I don’t want more than one person living in my house.

Hayley stared at him. Your house? I- I can’t live with you in your house.

He gave her a look that made her feel about as intelligent as a hamster. "It’s a house. That I own. Therefore

Reviews for Shooter

[bugg33 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

It was a all around great book….there should be more books like this .

[Amanda Rooney · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I enjoyed the plot of this book but found it read rather choppily. There were a lot of scenes that started off with “The next week…” jumping ahead in time so often at some points that it distracted me from the story. The biggest downside for me was that the man Hayley has supposedly been running from for the past 5 years is hardly present in the book until the last few chapters. His character is never developed, there’s no reason as to what he really wants from Hayley or what he plans to do with her.
Overall I think the story has potential but needed a good editor to iron out the flow and and help the author compose a well rounded book. Worth a quick read but don’t expect too much.