Storm

By Jay Lang

After taking the fall for her former lover, Paisley Stewart comes out of a stint in prison only to stay in another: her childhood home on Vancouver Island, where memories of her homophobic childhood linger. To her relief, her parents plan to vacation in Florida for part of the summer, leaving her to take care of the rental cabins. However, the relief is short-lived. She has a co-landlord: the know-it-all Ivy Logan, a family friend and childhood enemy. Little do they realize that their friction is setting off sparks, and a summer romance blooms.

However, their happiness doesn’t last. Ghosts from Paisley’s past emerge, and what was once an idyllic dream becomes a living nightmare. The girls find themselves in a desperate fight for their lives, and Paisley must decide—how far will she go to save the woman she loves?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Feb 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9780228616504

Jay Lang

Born and raised on the West Coast of BC, I was an actress for a number of years before becoming a clothing designer for rock bands. After deciding that I needed a change, I moved out of the city to attend university and learn the craft of creative writing. Hush, is the first LGBTQ2 thriller I have written. I am a huge fan of thrillers which prompted me to write a novel in this genre. I love including LGBTQ2 characters in my stories, as I feel that there is not enough available fiction that include the LGBTQ2 community.

Book preview

Storm

Jay Lang

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 978-0-2286-1650-4

Kindle 978-0-2286-1651-1

Web 978-0-2286-1652-8

Print ISBNs

Amazon Print 978-0-2286-1653-5

LSI  Print 978-0-2286-1654-2

B&N Print 978-0-2286-1655-9

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book

Chapter One

My decision to get out of bed would have differed greatly if I had known what was to come—a confrontation with two killers who were preying on the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. 

* * *

The faint scratching noise on the window over my bed instantly reminds me that I forgot to feed the neighborhood feral cat. If I ignore him, he’ll start wailing until my neighbors shout profanities. 

After quickly searching through the cupboards and coming up empty, the old Tom starts to yowl. Dammit! With no choice, I slide on my runners, grab my wallet and keys then head to the car—a 20-year-old Ford shit-box that a former co-worker gifted me.  

As soon as I pull out of the underground lot, sheets of rain hammer down on the windshield. I glance at the time on the dash. 10:45 PM. With fifteen minutes until the store closes, I drive as fast as I dare on the dark backroad and arrive with a few moments to spare. I park amongst a group of cars that are huddled together not far from the entrance, then run to the door, a hand over my head in a vain attempt to stay dry. 

Basket in hand, I walk fast-paced to the pet food lane. Just as I’m finished grabbing the small tins of cat grub and chucking them in my basket, a girl I don’t recognize appears at the end of the aisle. 

She has long dark hair and a thick, muscular build. The shininess of her short leather jacket and the dark spots on her jeans tells me she’s been out in the rain for a while. She’s too far away to make out her features but from her body language, she looks fidgety and doesn’t seem to be shopping. I don’t have time to study her—the store’s closing. I turn my back to her and make my way to the till. As I stand in line behind a couple of shoppers, I keep an eye out for the mysterious woman. 

After I’ve paid for the cat food, I exit the store, the night manager locking the door behind me. The rain has let up a little but not much. I quickly make my way over to my car and stand there, fumbling for my keys, and getting drenched. Just as I locate my keys in my pants pocket, I hear the scuffle of feet and look up. It’s her, the dark-haired girl from the store. 

With the light from the neon sign shining on us, I see her face clearly—exotic and stunningly beautiful. Her hair is wet and clinging to her olive skin while remnants of mascara sit just above her defined cheekbones. She nervously bites her full bottom lip. We stand staring at each other until the rev of an approaching vehicle breaks our concentration. She glances over her shoulder at the noise, then quickly crouches down between my vehicle and the one next to me. 

The noisy car comes into view and drives in front of me. It’s a newer model blue sedan. I get a quick look at the driver and passenger—two men about forty with short, dark hair. The eyes of the driver pierce through me as the car slowly passes by. 

They drive slowly around the other parked cars. It’s obvious they’re looking for someone. I glance down at the beautiful stranger who is now crouched in a river of cold water. 

They’re after you, aren’t they?

She nods. Do you think you could give me a ride out of here? Her dark eyes look terrified and desperate.

The logical part of my brain tells me to get in my car, lock my doors and call the cops, but a burning deep in my gut wants to help her. I quickly open the driver’s door and flick the unlock button before climbing in and starting the engine.

I look in the rear-view mirror and watch as the back door opens and the girl slinks onto the backseat, closing the door softly. 

I am just about to put the car into reverse when the blue car squeals up and stops in front of me. Instantly, I feel the air leave my lungs. My heart racing, I clutch the wheel and stare between the moving wipers. I watch as the passenger door opens, and a thinly built man gets out. He walks up to my door. I slowly unwind my window.

Hello. I am looking for my sister. The man has an Eastern European accent. She has long dark hair and is wearing a black leather jacket. She’s very sick and she needs help. Have you seen her?  

Before I can answer, his attention shifts to the back of my car. Thankfully, rain is blanketing the windows, making it difficult to see anything in the dark rear seats. As long as she doesn’t move...

No, I haven’t, I say loudly, taking his attention from the backseat. 

He stares at me for a few moments before turning and walking back to the blue car. I let out a long breath. 

It’s obvious that the woman isn’t related to him. They look completely different and based on the thug’s accent, they aren’t even the same nationality. I slowly put the car in reverse and back up. The blue car inches forward toward me. Just as I turn the wheel and put the car into drive, they pull up alongside me. The driver’s window goes down and the two men glare at me. 

Are you sure you haven’t seen her? the driver asks with the same accent as his passenger.

I’m positive, I say, trying to keep eye contact. 

Then, I catch a glimpse of something shiny in the hand of the other man. It only takes a second to identify the object as a knife, a long one with serrated edges. He’s pretending to clean his nails with it as he looks at me and grins. 

My hands begin to shake and a lump forms in my throat. 

I haven’t seen anyone. Just like I told your friend.

The driver shrugs, then rolls up his window. 

As I drive out of the parking lot, the car follows close behind. 

Hey, I whisper, I don’t know who the hell these guys are, but they look psycho and one of them has a knife. Not to mention, I think they’re tailing us.

A quiet voice comes from the backseat. They think I’m in here.

Really? What in the hell should I do now?

I don’t know, she answers calmly. But I wouldn’t stop if I were you.

Hey, you know what? I only let you get in my car because I thought you were in danger.

Is that the only reason? She lets out a small laugh.

What? 

Nothing.

Look, whatever your name is, I think I should drop you off at an open store or an all-night restaurant, where you’ll be safe.

I won’t be safe.

I’m just about to answer her when I hear the revving of an engine behind me, and then feel a strong jolt as the blue car rams into my bumper. My hands clench the wheel tight and everything feels like it’s going in slow-motion. 

The girl in the back sits up, screams, then tilts her head back and laughs. 

What the hell is so funny? Is she nuts? 

 I look in the side mirror and see that the car is still following. What in the hell did this girl do to these crazy thugs to make them so crazy? 

We approach a set of lights. I look over at the all-night donut shop on the corner, and I’m just about to stop at the red light when I see a black and white car with a light bar on top pulling into the donut shop. 

I quickly step on the gas and blow through the red light, then lay on the horn. The thugs behind me obviously haven’t noticed the cops yet, because they tail me right through the intersection. 

I look over at the police cruiser. It’s booting it out of the parking lot and heading my way, fast. I slow down, causing the blue car to get even closer, and I draw a huge breath of relief when I hear the siren and see the bright blue and red lights flash.

Pulling over to the side of the road I watch as the blue car speeds past me, the cops in hot pursuit. Once they round the corner, I put my head on the steering wheel.

Are you ok? the girl says.

Yeah. What the hell was that all about? I say, my relief turning to anger.

She leans over the front seat, extends her hand to me, and says, I’m Storm.

Chapter Two

Dark clouds cast a dreary mood over the morning as the prison gates shrink in the rear-view mirror. Even though the deafening silence in the car is fueling my anxiety, it’s nothing like the months of hell I’ve just lived through. 

Time served—nine months in a cement jungle while my captors went to work at reprogramming my flawed character. My father, Clay Stewart, the reluctant chauffeur for my freedom ride, always before emanating a youthful presence, now has wide brush strokes of silver streaming through his brown hair and deep, severe lines around his eyes and mouth. A by-product of the stress brought on by the immense disappointment he feels over me—his only child. 

On the ferry, I shuffle behind my father as he maneuvers through throngs of tourists and hunts for vacant seats. After some luck, we find two seats across from each other, and he predictably opens his newspaper and does his best to ignore me. Lines of people walk by, looking down at me as they pass. I slouch my shoulders and lower my gaze. An hour into the turbulent sailing, my father asks me if I’d like something to eat. I shake my head and he stuffs his paper under one arm, gets up, and walks down the aisle. 

Looking out over the churning sea, I feel overwhelmed with hopelessness. I never thought I’d miss the six square meters of my cell. My mind escapes to a memory of when I was in a school play and my father was sitting proudly in the front row. The bright stage lights shone in my eyes and obscured most of the audience, but I could see my dad clearly, shoulders back and wearing an appreciative grin. I felt ten feet tall that day. That was a long time ago.  

When the ship’s whistle blows and the overhead message—Thanks for travelling with BC Ferries—plays, my father and I make our way back to the car deck. As we follow the traffic the ship, my dad turns on the radio. The song My Girl by The Temptations plays through the speakers. I immediately reach out and turn it off. 

It’s the song that Storm always hummed to me, and she's the last person that I need to be reminded of right now. 

My father glares at me. I was listening to that. Why did you shut it off?

I’m sorry. I just really can’t stand that song.

He turns his attention back to the road, makes a few audible grumbles and then takes the north exit onto the Island Highway. 

Thankfully, there’s only another hour left of confined awkwardness before I get to see my mom—I’ve missed her desperately. The last time I saw her was about a year ago when she came over to Vancouver to buy supplies with the Logans, co-owners with my parents of the cabin resort. Other than that, I only make it home some Christmas’s, depending on my father’s mood. 

The rest of the journey goes without incident—or interaction—between my father and me until finally we reach Merville, a small community of laid-back, good-natured islanders where my parents have lived and worked renting summer cabins for as long as I can remember. We take Tasman Road all the way to the seashore before turning into the lot. 

The place looks much as it always has—six cabins in a horseshoe and the main office building off to the side. I look over at the weathered sign that reads Stogan’s Resort, a combination of my parents’ last name, Stewart, and the Logans’.

Despite the incomparable beauty of the area, I spent many of my younger years dreaming of the day when I’d be old enough to break away from here. 

My father gets out, closes his door and walks toward the main building, leaving me to pop the trunk and retrieve my bag. Although I can’t wait to see my mom, I’m dreading being holed up in the same house as my dad. A car ride is one thing but spending 24/7 in the same space is quite another. 

As soon as I open my car door, a powerful gust of sea air pushes against me. I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath to give me strength for the confrontation I will undoubtedly face with my father, once he’s had a few drinks. He’s not normally a drinker, except for when he’s stewing about something. Because of the embarrassment I’ve put him and my mother through, I’m almost positive he has a lot of pent-up aggression he’d just love to unleash on me. All he needs is some liquid courage—bourbon. 

After grabbing my bag, I stop and gaze out over the endless sandbar, watching gulls fight against the wind as they struggle to land. The sky matches the sea, a grey monochrome color, making it hard to distinguish where one ends and the other begins. I watch as tall swells with white tips roll into shore. Throwing my bag over one shoulder, I turn and walk over to the main cabin. 

The heavy wooden door creaks on its hinges when I open it. Inside, the familiar smell of percolating coffee and freshly baked bread permeates the air. I flop my bag down on a kitchen chair and start looking around for Mom. She’s not in the living room, the biggest room in the house. My father knocked out a couple of walls and expanded the room so that travelers and tourists that were renting cabins could have a common area to meet. I never understood the draw of having a bunch of strangers hanging out in your private living area, but my parents are far more socially outgoing than I am. 

I peek inside the laundry room and the large pantry before heading upstairs. About halfway up, I hear the music of Edit Piaf—my mother’s favorite singer. 

At the top of the stairwell, I look over and see my father sitting in his office in front of his wooden desk. He’s looking at his computer screen. The floorboards creak under my feet and he briefly glances over at me, then looks away. I walk down the hall toward the music. My parent’s bedroom door is only open a few inches, but the tunes coming from inside are blaringly loud, making it easy for me to go undetected. I slowly push the door open. My mom, a grey haired, lofty woman in her sixties, has her back to me and is bending over the bed, singing loudly out of tune while she folds a large pile of laundry. 

I smile and walk softly into the room. She turns and sees me, and her mouth falls open. She quickly shuts off the music and then holds out her arms. Paisley, you’re here!

It’s obvious by her surprised reaction that she didn’t hear us pull up and I guess my dad didn’t let her know we had arrived—my father, the great communicator. 

When I step closer and see her crystal-green eyes start to water, I muster every bit of strength in me not to cry. I have to be tough. I don’t want her to see what that place did to me. It would hurt her too badly. I have to pretend that everything is ok, and I’ve come out of my experience unscathed. I hold my head high and pull my shoulders back. I walk into her arms and she squeezes me tightly, her chin on my shoulder. She sniffles, her chest vibrates, and she starts to cry. 

I hold her firmly, running my hand up and down the back of her beige sweater. I’m keeping it