The Associate

By J.S. Frankel

Courage counts for everything.

Nate Holliday is your average teen, living a fairly ordinary life in Portland, Oregon. Born without a right hand, he copes with his disability the best that he can, although he still feels like an outsider.

His fairly ordinary life changes when he meets Ukiko Monaghan, a woman from an alternate Earth. Ukiko, known as Dividing Woman for her ability to split her body into multiple copies of herself, is after a violent criminal named Astral, who can summon up demons from another dimension.

Astral is aided by Tony Lethal, a thug who enjoys stomping people. Together, they are in search of the Spark, an all-powerful weapon, and Ukiko enlists Nate’s help in finding it before they do.

Now, Nate, along with his girlfriend, Melanie Sarkosian, have to avoid spectral demons, the various branches of the law, and curiosity seekers as they race to find the Spark before Astral does. It’s a hard journey, one fraught with danger, and Nate has to conquer his own demons before he can conquer those who seek to defeat him in his quest.

Sometimes, courage is all you need.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eXtasy Books Inc
• Release date: Jan 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781487420444

Book preview

Some heroes are born. Others are made. Still others, like Nate Holliday, are chosen. He doesn’t know why he’s been chosen. He only knows that he has to find out what the reason is.

Nathaniel—Nate—Holliday, seventeen, has a couple of problems in life. One, he needs a summer job. Two, due to him being born without a right hand, he can’t land one. He compensates the best that he can, but society isn’t so accepting.

Resigned to his fate, he is approached one day by a woman named Ukiko. Ukiko hails from a parallel Earth and has the ability to divide her body into multiple versions of itself.

Her sole mission on this Earth is to capture a couple of dangerous criminals named Astral and Tony Lethal. With their capture, she can earn her way into a group of superheroes known as the Associates.

Nate agrees to help her, and eventually, his girlfriend, Melanie, finds out about Ukiko and also agrees to help. However, agreeing to help is one thing. Running from danger is something else.

Astral has the ability to project dangerous creatures from other dimensions. Tony is simply strong, stupid, and stomps people for a living. They are both after the Spark, a weapon of unimaginable power.

Now, Nate simply has to not only learn to survive but also to thrive. It’s sink or swim time, and the Associates only want the best of the best.

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Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The Associate

Copyright © 2019 J.S. Frankel

ISBN: 978-1-4874-2044-4

Cover art by Martine Jardin

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

Published by eXtasy Books Inc or

Devine Destinies, an imprint of eXtasy Books Inc

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www.eXtasybooks.com or www.devinedestinies.com

Smashwords Edition

The Associate

The Associate Book 1

By

J.S. Frankel

Dedication

To my wife, Akiko, and to my sons, Kai and Ray. Thank you for making every single day my greatest adventure.

Also, thank you to Sara Beth, Lolo, and Emily, Mirren Hogan, Lyra Shanti, Leslie Rosanoff Kroll, Joanne Van Leerdam, Bobbie Crawford, Elizabeth Zervos, Safa Shaqsy, and especially, to my sister, Nancy Frankel, who has always supported me through thick and thin.

Chapter One

Portland, June seventh, eight AM, my home. My room. My domain.

Nate, get a move on, my mother yelled. From the echo, I mentally triangulated where it was coming from, and then decided it had emanated from the central focus of this abode—the kitchen.

Nate!

Aw, come on, let me sleep a bit more. This bed is comfortable.

Nathaniel Andrew Holliday, get up!

That roused me, and I opened my eyes, blinked, and felt a grimace form right away. My prosthetic sat on my night table. I didn’t need a mirror to tell me what expression I had going on. A right hand, crafted to match my left one, it looked almost the same as a human hand.

The key word was almost, but in reality, it was like the difference between night and day. I’d been born without a right hand.

My right forearm looked normal enough, but instead of a stump at the end of the wrist, the bone was wide and resembled a mini-mallet, hence the necessity for a prosthetic.

Nate!

My mother happened to be one of the nicest people around, kind and understanding, sympathetic to the max, but when it came time to eat, she turned into a cross between a gargoyle and a drill instructor. She bellowed, Nate, again.

Oh, and her voice—it sounded like a high-speed drill going right through the center of my brain. That got me up, that, and the fact that she’d used my full name, something she did only when she was pissed off or stressed out. Perhaps it was the latter, this time.

She shouted out my name again. This was the winner, and I yelled back, still half asleep, Okay, I’m up!

School day—Wednesday—and that signaled the middle part of the week. I got dressed, slipping into my pants and awkwardly pulling a shirt over my head with my left hand. I used my right arm as a prop to get things straight and then slipped it through. I’d been doing so ever since I was old enough to walk.

Everyone talked about the new three-D printed hands, mechanical hands that science had developed, hands that could grasp, and fingers that could move and therefore act like the real thing.

Sure they did. Television and movies gave the impression that you could look normal, be normal or be better than normal, if and only if you had money. With the right amount of cash, you could buy one and be the newest Bionic Person on the block!

We couldn’t.

Since I was a kid, I’d made do with slipping on the hand. It fit neatly over the stump and caused some swelling at night. Soaking it in Epsom salts was a routine I’d been performing almost every evening since I was little.

Fortunately for us impoverished people, a local hospital had a number of prosthetics on tap, and one of the technicians there used to measure my stump from time to time and reshape the prosthetic hands for me from the time I was small—or so my mother had told me. I’d used a variety of sizes over the years.

Initially, I’d used a hook instead of a plastic hand. That was when I was around five. But I’d never liked strapping it on, and it tended to snag on material or slash others by mistake, and I disliked people staring at it. A plastic hand was somewhat more unobtrusive.

Stumpy.

That was what some kids called me in elementary school. Or Captain Hook. Or Mannequin. Crap like that. It hurt, hurt so much that when I was seven, after a bully had poked fun at me and smacked me around, I walked home crying, and then I got some great advice from my father, advice I’d immediately taken to heart.

"Nate, some people think that it’s okay to make fun of others who are different. Some people think that it’s fun to put others down. It’s not. So, if you don’t get along with the other kids because you don’t like their personalities, or they don’t like yours, that’s okay. It happens.

But it’s never okay to make fun of others because they’re physically different. When your mother and I saw you for the first time, we thought you were great, the best thing that ever happened to us. We still do.

I wiped the tears that ran down my face. So, what do I do, Daddy?

Get ready to learn something.

My boxing lessons began on the same day. My father was no expert, but he knew enough to teach me how to keep my guard up, how to sidestep punches or block them, and how to punch. I was naturally right-handed, but I had to learn to fight with my left.

The other kids, they’ll always go for your weaker side. They’ll think it’s weaker. That’ll mean they won’t be expecting you to fight this way.

Over time, I developed a bobbing, weaving style of attack and defense. I sparred with my father and shadow boxed on my own. I also religiously watched kung-fu flicks and learned how to combine kicks and punches together.

While training, I also discovered something else. The stump was bone, as hard as a fist. Hitting someone with it hurt me, but it hurt them even more.

The next time the same bully picked on me, called attention to my disability and tried to start something, he got smacked in the mouth and lost two teeth.

I got sent to detention. After that, the insults still came my way, but less often. Fighting had never been something I liked, but sometimes it came down to having a brawl. Soon, I got the rep of being someone not to mess with.

Conflicts aside, it was the everyday routines that gave me the most trouble. I got used to getting dressed by myself, buttoning and zipping-unzipping my pants... things like that. Tying laces on shoes was difficult, although not impossible. I managed. Still, loafers ruled, so I used them more often.

With my false hand, the models I used had a suction device, so when I put the hand on, it immediately gripped my stump. That gave me a sense of solidity, but I could never get used to the idea of having something fake attached to my body.

I could also never get used to the stares. Stares of wonder—sometimes—but most often, stares of pity. Or loathing. Or both...

Nate! That was... number five, by my count.

Coming!

Inside the kitchen, my mother was in the process of sliding a plate of waffles onto the table. With my good hand, I popped the top off the syrup bottle, poured a generous splash of the good ol’ maple on top of the waffles, filling each little hole, and then used my fork to cut and feast.

Good?

My mother’s question caused me to stop chewing, swallow, and nod. Just fine, Mom.

She turned away with a smile. As she made her breakfast, I thought about all the times we’d spent talking in this kitchen, a small, unpretentious, homey place full of smells of cinnamon and nutmeg and other spices that my mother often used.

My father had died when I was ten, seven years ago. At the funeral, I actually thought he’d turn up, but no. Imagination was a funny thing, and no little kid could really understand the finality of death.

I did, though, when he never came through the door again, never hugged me again, and I knew on that cold and windy day in October after the funeral had finished that he simply wasn’t coming back.

Nate?

My mother’s voice startled me. I’d been zoning out. What?

I have to work late today. I already made you something for tonight. You’ll be fine, won’t you?

Her large gray eyes were filled with concern. She was only forty-three, but she appeared to be much older. Being single, working long hours at an office job that didn’t pay much, thinking about me and my disability... it was hard on her.

It was hard on me as well, but I tried not to think about it. When I went out in public, people didn’t see a seventeen-year-old kid, someone around five-ten with a mop of brown hair, a slender build, and gray eyes like my mother’s but a hatchet face like my father’s.

No, they focused on my fake hand that never changed position unless I changed it first, a prosthetic that hung at my side showing the world I was a little different. That’s what they saw. That’s all they saw.

Eight-thirty, my mother said. Is Melanie coming by?

She meant Melanie Sarkosian, my girlfriend. Of all the people I knew, outside of my mother and one friend at school, Mel—her nickname—was the only one who’d never mentioned my missing hand.

She lived down the block from us. We’d grown up together, gone to the same elementary school, same junior high school, and now, Portland High.

Mel, a little shorter than me, slender and beautiful with cool green eyes, had been with me from the start. We’d done the usual things as kids, playing on swings, running around outside, and she’d taken a liking to me for some reason. I’d never asked why—only accepted.

Her parents were pretty decent as well, and after my father died, they’d gone out of their way to be kind. They treated me like one of their own, and that was enough.

My mother’s voice brought me back to reality. Nate?

What? Oh, yeah. I guess so, Mom.

Ping-pong. That was the doorbell talking, and my mother went to answer it. I heard her saying, Hello, Melanie. Nate will be with you soon.

That was my cue. I finished eating, went to the hallway, grabbed my bag that I’d prepared the night before, and saw my girlfriend waiting with a smile on her face. Hi, she said, a grin working.

It was slightly crooked, and it always made me think of someone who had a secret they were dying to tell but didn’t, just to get someone else frustrated. Hi, yourself, I answered. We’re off?

Let’s go, she said, jerking her thumb at the street outside. Higher education waits for no one.

My mother ruffled my hair. I’ll be back around ten, she said. Have a good day.

Yeah, I’d try. Our school was a ten-minute walk away. It wasn’t any great shakes, but I’d get by, and since we had two days left before summer vacation, I’d muddle through things. I always had.

We walked down the street, holding hands, her warm hand in my real one. At first, when we’d gone beyond being friends and into something more, she’d grabbed my fake hand, but I told her, I can’t feel you.

After that, she’d used my real hand. Good enough for me.

So, what’s up for your summer vacation? she asked, breaking the silence.

I’ll try to get a summer job. It’ll give me something to do.

You can always study with me. We’ve got books to read and, you know, other stuff.

The other stuff meant dates and kisses, but as much as I cared for Mel, I wanted a job for my own reasons. Her family was wealthy. Her father was a lawyer, and her mother had a small boutique that sold pricey but beautiful floral arrangements. They didn’t have to worry about cash. I did.

Well, if you get something, save enough time for me, she said.

That made me laugh. You know I will.

We rounded a corner, and our school, a large brick building, came into view. Mel greeted a few of the kids there. She was friendly with everyone, as opposed to me, the introvert.

As I watched them chatter away, they seemed happy enough, and why shouldn’t they be? Life was theirs for the taking. I knew a few of them, although I couldn’t say that I’d made any great friends in my time here, save one.

Hey!

The shout made me turn around. Mike Pinter, the school’s resident jock, loped over, his large six-foot, one-inch frame crushing the air around him. You two up for anything after school?

Mike was decent. That was the only word to describe him, really. He was always in a good mood, had girls for the asking, and retained a positive view on life. At times I envied him, but then again, most people did.

Gotta go shopping with my mom, Mel said and turned to me. I was going to tell you that earlier on. We’ll catch up tomorrow.

I’d been hoping to hang out with her after school, but smiled to hide my disappointment. No problem.

And we’re still on for Saturday night, right?

Saturday night was dinner night at her parent’s house. Yeah, it’s cool with me.

What about summer vacation? Mike asked.

Reading, my girlfriend said promptly. Reading can seriously damage ignorance like the experts say.

Do some damage, Mike responded, and they both laughed.

Me, I said nothing. I had my hopes on scoring a summer job, but I wasn’t sure if it would come my way. I’d already gotten turned down six times.

All right, join the conversation. What are you up to, Mike?

I’m off to football camp in Salem for a month, he announced proudly, flexing his large arms in a front, double-biceps, bodybuilding pose. I’m leaving in a few days. Gotta get ready for the season.

Okay, that was amusing. Life seemed to favor Mike. It always did, but unfortunately, the bell rang, and that meant class time.

Mike gave us a thumbs-up and ran to join Kirsten, his blonde, sunny girlfriend. Yeah, he had all his ducks in a row. Me, I had Mel and... not much else.

See you later, Mel said, offering her crooked grin. Love you, boyfriend.

She kissed me on the cheek, and then she was gone. Love you, she’d said. I’d never said the same to her, but now it was on my to-say list.

And school was waiting, so time to get it done.

School turned out to be a big nothing-burger in terms of things happening. Talk centered on vacation plans, new friendships, hookups, movies, and more. I listened in, not really following, but keeping an open mind.

Mel and I had lunch together in the cafeteria, talked about the usual inconsequential matters, and after the final bell rang, we got our books and walked home. Having lockers next to each other was a bonus.

As we walked, I remembered my sweat clothes. I’d left them in my locker. Wonderful... there would be some stink when I came back to school in September. Ah, well. Something worse could always happen.

Silence ruled as we made our way back, with only the sound of birds tweeting and the hum of the overhead power lines breaking into the quiet.

It didn’t matter. Simply being with Mel, feeling her hand in mine, was more than enough. Our path took us to the edge of downtown where shoppers were out, making their purchase runs.

A couple of trucks motored by, stopping at a nearby construction site, and the shouts of men yelling from up on high echoed over to our position. We walked past the building, and Mel stopped at a corner.

So, here we are, she said. I’m going over to Lowie’s to meet my mother. See you on Saturday, okay?

She kissed me on the cheek, and then she was off. I watched her move among the swirling mass of people, and then she was gone.

With nothing better to do, I turned around and began to walk home. A young boy ran ahead of me, followed by his mother.

Slow down!

The boy’s mother’s command fell on deaf ears. Her son, maybe seven years of age, didn’t stop. Instead, he ran near the construction site, darting in and out of the workers carrying lumber and tools.

Not a wise move, as the boy didn’t really watch where he was going, and banged into a number of wooden boards that supported a platform. He fell and held onto his knee, crying out in pain. As for the platform, it started to teeter. Oh, crap, no one else was near enough—except me.

From the point on, things happened in slow motion. The platform began to fall. The objects on it—buckets, wrenches, power tools, and more—began to rain down. His mother’s screams echoed through the air, and so did the shouts of some other pedestrians.

Without thinking, I took off and grabbed the boy, pulling him out of the way. The tools cascaded down a few feet away from us, sending up puffs of dirt and debris. Geez... that had been close.

Look out!

The cry came from another worker. I looked up, only to find a pile of lumber falling in my direction. Without thinking, I pushed the boy away from me, but then I froze. Jesus, this is the end. At least the kid is safe.

A hand came out of nowhere, yanking me to the side. The lumber smashed into the ground, missing me by inches. I stood there, shaking, my heart thundering away. The mother came over to grab her crying son and lead him away, saying Thank you