Rewritten

By Ashley Brandt

Eddie Cole is a seventeen-year-old boy living in the desert town of Banks. After losing his Dad, Eddie finds solace in a pen and paper, dreaming up quirky characters and new adventures to manage his grief. When Eddie's written fantasies come to fruition, he can't resist the urge to use his newfound power to sculpt the life that he's always dreamed of. While Eddie's dreams are truly fantastic, Eddie discovers that each written word comes at a price, and he must choose between living a fairy tale of his own making or embracing the things that mean the most.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665567794

Ashley Brandt

Ashley Brandt grew up in Highland, California. She currently resides in North Texas with her husband and their two boys. Ashley attended college in Waxahachie, Texas, where she earned her Paramedic License. She is a proud healthcare provider and an author on her off days. An avid reader, Ashley has been writing stories since she could hold a pen. Her hobbies include swimming, hiking, reading (of course), and fostering kittens!

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© 2022 Ashley Brandt. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse   08/04/2022

ISBN: 978-1-6655-6780-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-6778-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-6779-4 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in

this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views

expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the

views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Chapter 1   It’s Just Fiction

Chapter 2   The Things We Lost

Chapter 3   Déjà Vu

Chapter 4   Ham Hock Hero

Chapter 5   The Power of the Pen

Chapter 6   Trial and Error

Chapter 7   The Lion Tamer

Chapter 8   Pains in the Assassin

Chapter 9   Luck, Bee a Lady

Chapter 10   Some Buddy to Love

Chapter 11   Lightning

Chapter 12   Eddie

Chapter 13   Missing

Chapter 14   Ask the Pope

Chapter 15   The Reckoning

Chapter 16   No More Pretending

Chapter 17   A New Leaf

Chapter 18   A Queen in Caesar’s Palace

Chapter 19   Struck by Lightning

Chapter 20   Doctor’s Orders

Chapter 21   Mind What You Say

Chapter 22   Pixie

Chapter 23   The Trouble with Truth

Chapter 24   We Reap What We Sow

Chapter 25   Ambush

Chapter 26   Homework

Chapter 27   The Pope and His Sidekicks

Chapter 28   Spies That Fly

Chapter 29   The Lady of the Lake

Chapter 30   It’s All by Design

Chapter 31   Heads Up

Chapter 32   The Time Traveler’s Ghost

Chapter 33   The Ghost of You

Chapter 34   Ricochet

Chapter 35   Extraction

Chapter 36   Lions and Tigers and … Dragons?

Chapter 37   Birthright

Chapter 38   Sly as a Fox

Chapter 39   A Ghost like Me

Chapter 40   The Battles We Fought

Chapter 41   A Spectacular Ending

Epilogue

CHAPTER 1

It’s Just Fiction

I often wondered why anybody lived in Banks. It was not highly populated, the schools left something to be desired, and the residents were peculiar. My neighbor, for example, had a plastic igloo in his front yard with a welcome sign on the door and a scarecrow erected just beside it. I asked him about it once when I went out to our mailbox. He told me it was to keep the seals away.

Banks was a desert community about forty-five miles from any real city and the kind of place travelers would rather pass through than stop for gas. The nearest hospital was thirty minutes away, so you’d better hope you didn’t need one quickly. The running joke was that Banks’s residents were all inbred. I used to think it was just a joke, but now, I’m not so sure.

I worked at a grocery store—the only grocery store in town—off Cheyenne Road. Possum King’s was an eight-hundred-square-foot place that carried everything from automotive equipment to ice cream. Mr. Sellers was the manager, a balding forty-something with a paunch and bad skin. He had retired from being the principal of Banks High School two summers earlier and had dedicated himself to operating the grocery.

One day at work, I eyed Nina from behind the meat counter. Her perfectly coiffed brown hair fell past her shoulders as she bent down to grab a can of pork and beans from the bottom shelf. She and I shared a science class at Banks High, and we were hired at Possum King’s around the same time. I wouldn’t call what I was doing stalking per se, but I was very attuned to Nina.

And I wasn’t the only one looking at her. I saw a middle-aged man with scruffy facial hair and an oil-stained jumpsuit eyeing Nina’s rear end from down the aisle. I was scowling at him as he pretended to be considering the two brands of chili we carried when she glanced at him. He looked away, but the creep fixed his eyes back on her the moment she turned. Now, Nina didn’t exactly know I existed, but that didn’t stop me from feeling protective of her. She might not have known it then, but one day, the two of us were going to leave this town together.

I didn’t know Possum King’s was hirin’ models these days! the scruffy man said.

Nina paused and looked up at the old creep, who had crept up behind her. He held a can of chili in one hand and was rubbing his generous gut with the other. Upon closer inspection, I noted that he was missing a few teeth and that one of his eyes was turned outward.

No models here, she said sweetly. I’m too young to be a model.

It don’t look like it from where I’m standing, he said as his eyes raked across her petite form.

My hands gripped the butcher’s knife I was holding, and I eased around the display case.

Was there something you needed help with? she snapped. Despite her forceful demeanor, I sensed her discomfort. It was in the set of her shoulders and the way she avoided making eye contact with the man.

Y’all got any weenies? he asked lasciviously.

Nina pointed at the cooler case behind him that contained hot dogs advertised by large, colorful signs.

Sellers shuffled around the corner, having heard the older man’s comments from the bread aisle. Let me direct you to the hot dogs, he said, steering the man away from Nina. With the creep’s attention diverted, Nina’s muscles relaxed. She packed up the overstock that was left into the box and carried it to the stockroom adjacent to the meat counter.

What a creep, I said to her on her way in.

Huh? Oh yeah. He has no business talking to teenage girls like that, she said, depositing the box on the rack just inside the double doors.

He has no business talking to girls period, I said, and she chuckled—a glorious, musical sound that reminded me of waterfalls and delicate things.

You’re in Mr. Reeves’s class, aren’t you? she asked.

Yeah. I’m Eddie Cole, I said extending my hand. I mentally kicked myself. Teenagers didn’t shake hands, but Nina smiled and accepted mine. Her eyes flashed to the pigs’ feet on paper wrappings on the counter behind me. Her lip turned up slightly at the corners; she was a vegetarian.

The man from earlier circled back around with his cart. That time, he strode deliberately to Nina and scooped her up. She cried out in surprise as he threw her over his shoulder, cackling and ruffling her hair. His wide figure retreated toward the exit. Nina kicked and screamed, and I hurled the knife at the man, narrowly missing his head. The blade lodged in the electrical box controlling the doors and disabled them.

I leaped over the meat counter and tossed aside my white paper hat and stained apron. Let her go! I demanded, and the man turned and stared at me, his good eye locking on mine. He grinned, baring what was left of his teeth, and Nina whimpered.

Eddie! Please help me! she cried.

I leveled my gaze at the man and pointed at him. I won’t tell you again! I growled.

The man sneered at me and refused to set Nina down. My hand then shot out toward the meat counter and grabbed a ham hock, which I hurled at the man’s head. He dodged that one, but I hurled a second, which connected with his face in a meaty thud. It left a trail of blood and caused him to grunt and falter. I charged him with hands held out ready for combat.

The man’s eyes widened as I lowered my body to the ground and swept his legs out from under him. Nina yelped and tumbled toward the floor, but I caught her. Gently setting her aside, I stood to face her captor head-on. He was taller than he had appeared, and he weighed more than I did. But I was faster.

I delivered three blows to his face in quick succession, and he tipped and swayed and slumped to the floor. The customers who had assembled in the produce section erupted in applause as the man’s eyes rolled back into his head. Nina sprinted to me, wrapped her arms around my neck, and kissed me passionately …

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Eddie!

I threw my pen down, tore the papers from their bindings, and shoved them into my desk drawer. What, Mom? I ran my hands over my face, dismissing thoughts of Nina’s lips for another time.

Get down here and take this trash out! I’ve told you three times!

I groaned and stalked downstairs to the kitchen, where Mom was pulling a casserole out of the oven. She had never mastered cooking, but she favored casseroles because all she had to do was dump the ingredients into a dish and bake it with cheese on it.

She wiped her hands on her apron and smoothed her hair. What have you been up to? Why are you all sweaty?

I was just writing, I mumbled. I tied the garbage bag and heaved it into the can out back.

Mom was wearing her new apron, one she’d sewn herself. She seemed to think that wearing an apron would improve her culinary skills. It hadn’t worked. But she was good with a needle and thread. Close to a dozen aprons she’d sewn were hanging in the broom closet.

Have you decided on your cake flavor yet? she asked as she grated cheese.

I stared at the burned contents in the dish, sad remnants of what had once been some kind of meat and potato mixture.

N—no, you don’t have to make me a cake, Mom.

My eighteenth birthday was the next day. She had found the recipe for a triple-layer lemon vanilla cake she’d wanted to make. She had the cookbook propped up against the standing mixer. It was opened to the page with cake recipes.

I’m making you a cake, she insisted. Look through that book and let me know which one you want.

I rolled my eyes when her back was turned, and she chided me for it. When I was seven, I was convinced that she had eyes in the back of her head.

This one, I said pointing at the single-layer vanilla cake on the first page.

She arched an eyebrow at me and swatted me with a dishtowel. Keep it up and you’ll get boxed brownies, mister, she said with a smile tugging at her lips.

I pecked her on the cheek and went out to the garage.

CHAPTER 2

The Things We Lost

D ad had been dead for three years. He had been the night attendant at a gas station off Highway 22 and had fallen victim in an armed robbery. Despite his cooperation, the trio of men had opted to shoot him twice in the chest. He bled out on the floor behind the cash register. Mom and I learned of it hours later after the morning clerk had come in to relieve him.

In the garage, I notched the weights and added ten pounds to the bar. I took off my shirt. Dad had liked to exercise, but Banks didn’t have a gym. And we probably couldn’t have afforded the monthly dues anyway.

As an alternative, Dad had created a gym in our garage. It was a collection of cinder blocks and refurbished equipment. I never used it when he was alive, but