PALINDROME

It’s a hot summer night on Long Island. The
Suds Shack is packed—lots of kids partying at a bar. In the crowd
is a girl who is different from anyone else.

A guy on the prowl—plop goes a pill into her
drink. Her world spins out of control.

He thought he had her; now he’s dead, and
she’s coming for his accomplice. They picked the wrong girl to mess
with.

She can look like you or me, or anyone else
she may choose to become. Lexa and her brother Ax have a special
talent, a unique gift.

In Book One, Lexa and Ax find themselves
entangled in a web of murder, drugs, and manipulation.

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

PALINDROME Copyright © 2012 by Lawrence
Kelter

All rights reserved. No part of this book may
be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by
information storage and retrieval system, without written
permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

First Edition – June 2012

--------------------------------

Forever and longer

Isabella

One: The Night of

It
was a hot summer night, and the
music was loud. Not just loud, pounding: Lady Gaga, pounding, Pink,
pounding, Beyoncé, pounding. Three hundred kids were dancing under
the moon-filled sky. The beat was so loud that it consumed you. How
loud was it? It was so loud that half a mile away, citizens in the
retirement community were stuffing cotton into their ears to get
some sleep.

The air was warm and damp, uncomfortably
damp. Skin was glistening on the dance floor. Some of it was mine.
I was showing too much and not caring. I was wearing a short skirt.
It was too short, shorter than it should’ve been. Jamie Foxx sang,
“Blame it on the alcohol.”

The Suds Shack was an insanely crowded Long
Island watering hole. The drinks were cheap and strong. Thirsty
young folks were lined up three-deep at the bar. It was a college
student’s dream come true. It was practically our
raison
d'être
, drinking, laughing, blowing off steam, and loving
it.

I was taking summer session so I would be
able to graduate ahead of the pack. Jobs on Long Island were not
very plentiful. They were almost nonexistent. It certainly wasn’t a
prospect to look forward to. So tonight, I was living in the moment
and having a little fun. A couple of drinks can wash away an awful
lot of pain.

My best friend Gabi was making her way across
the floor. Her smile preceded her, as it always did, with those
big, round cheeks and those incredible, round, hazel eyes. She was
fanning herself with her hands (as if those paltry little things
could cool off a girl her size). I was never sure if the Rubenesque
figure bothered her. If it did, I certainly never knew it. Gabi was
fun to be with all the time. She was always laughing and always
smiling. If that was her way of coping with a poor self-image, I
have to tell you, sign me up. She had to turn sideways so that she
could cut across the dance floor. She was sweating up a storm,
panting, and out of breath. She grabbed me by the hand and yanked
me off the dance floor just as the band finished its set. I picked
up someone’s empty Corona. I pretended it was a microphone and
began spooning her, singing “Grenade” by Bruno Mars: “To give me
all your love is all I ever asked, ‘cause what you don’t understand
is . . .”

Gabi didn’t miss a beat. She grabbed a Coors
Light out of some guy’s hand just as the bottle was on its way to
his mouth. She followed me right in, “I’d catch a grenade for ya,
throw my hand on a blade for ya . . .”

We were drawing a crowd. We leaned in toward
one another as the bar folks joined in, “I’d jump in front of a
train for ya. You know I’d do anything for ya.”

Our cover ended with a moment of hysterical
laughter. The guy whose bottle of Coors had become Gabi’s
microphone came over thinking he had an opening to hit on us, but
Gabi gave him the
no, no, no
finger wave. She handed him
back his bottle. “Thanks for the prop, man,” she said, and the guy
returned from whence he came. Gabi had that in her repertoire; as
sweet as she was, she could shut you down cold. I felt for that
guy, getting emasculated with the slightest of hand gestures like
that. To make things worse, the DJ was playing Pink’s “U + Ur
Hand.” I hope the poor guy was tight with his therapist.

As soon as the last song was over, the DJ
began spinning Rihanna’s “S&M.” I grabbed Gabi and tried to
yank her back onto the dance floor, but here too, she was in a
different weight classification and there was no moving her.

“Damn, Lexa. Take a break, I’m dying,” she
said.

I was dancing in place, pretending that I
didn’t hear her. She dissed me with a look that said,
really?
I stopped for her sake and strutted over to the bar.
“Two margaritas, extra salt.” The bartender was on it in a flash.
He poured the Cuervo heavy—his drinks were knocking me on my
ass.

Gabi and I clinked glasses. The drinks were
cold, sweet, and syrupy, a surefire remedy for the heat and
humidity. We threw them down in a couple of quick gulps.

“
Someone’s
feeling no pain,” Gabi
said.

“I’m miserable,” I said with a grin so silly
it betrayed me.

By the time we put our glasses down on the
bar, another round was waiting for us. I raised my hand to indicate
to the bartender that we had not ordered another round. Not that we
didn’t want them, but who was going to pay for them? Anyway, a
girl’s got to know her limits. He pointed across the dance floor. I
followed his gaze. “They’re on
that
guy,” he said.

I shrugged. “Cool,” I said, waiting for the
bartender to tell us his name.

He finally gave it up. “I’m Keith,” he
replied with a quick smile and then began to wipe down the bar.

“Thanks, Keith.” He was pretty cute, but you
could just see that he was full of himself. With a guy like Keith,
it was either “game on” or be gone.

Keith winked, and then I turned to look at
the guy who had plunked down his hard-earned dough for us. He had
piercing baby blues and a five o’clock shadow over a big square
jaw. I toasted him from afar with the fresh margarita and then
turned toward Gabi. I mean I wasn’t going to make it that easy for
him; playing hard-to-get was fun. Besides, everything was moving so
fast: too much alcohol and too much adrenaline, not the best
combination for making an intelligent decision.

“Girl, he’s cute. Are you going to talk to
him?” Gabi said.

“I’m thinking about it.” I started to giggle
uncontrollably. “I’m totally shit-faced. Maybe I better not.”

“Are you
confuzzled
?”

“Yes, Gabi, I’m completely
confuzzled
.” She was using one of my self-invented
portmanteaus.
Confuzzled
meant that I was confused, puzzled,
and my thinking was a little fuzzy.

Gabi’s big, brown eyes grew wide. “Shit,
Lexa, he’s coming over.”

“Crap!” I started to giggle again. The
alcohol was taking over.

He was standing behind me. “You could be my
type,” he said.

The poor guy had no idea who he was talking
to. I could be anyone’s type if it suited me, and it had suited me
many times before. There were things about me that were pretty
bizarre. “I’m not sure that’s a proper advance,” I replied.

“Really, I thought that was a pretty good
pickup line,” he said.

Really?
I fought off another round of
the giggles while I figured out how far I should let this go. You
had to be careful with some of these Suffolk County boys; some of
them were decent guys and some of them were pickup-truck-driving
hicks, who in an earlier time would’ve sported a mullet haircut. A
denim shirt with torn off sleeves was still a big look in Suffolk
County. You know what I mean, the Joe Dirt look.

Which one was he?

“I’m Vincent,” he said, as he extended his
hand. He was holding a Blue Moon Ale in the other. His cuffs were
rolled up to the middle of his forearms, revealing the start of a
full-sleeve tattoo, no colors, just black ink—an etching of an
exotic woman. It was actually pretty tasteful.

Vincent
, he’d said, not Vinnie or Vin.
He sounded like a gumba to me, an Italian guy who might be a little
too macho for his own good. He was cute nonetheless. Were gumbas
okay? I was too sloshed to think straight. What do I do with this
guy? Is a dance too much? Is small talk too little? Do I even want
to get started? Like I said, we had just come out to blow off a
little steam, and I didn’t need a new guy complicating my life. Not
now, not so soon after putting recent troubles behind me.

Gabi was my sister in all things. She was in
my head, listening to my thoughts as I was thinking them. She
stepped between Vincent and me to create a little space. Okay, a
lot of space, but it was badly needed space.

“Hi, I’m Gabrielle,” she said. “My friend was
just about to introduce us.”

“Introduce
you
?” Vincent said. He
smirked. “She hasn’t even introduced herself.”

“I’m her handler.” Gabi’s expression said,
deal with it
. “If you want to get to her you have to go
through me.” I don’t know how she kept a straight face.

I wanted to break out laughing and almost
lost it. Now, a clod would have made a tasteless comment about
Gabi’s weight and how tough getting through her would be, but
Vincent had it under control. He was quiet for a moment before
speaking. His eyes softened. He actually looked kind of vulnerable.
“One dance?” he said and made one of those wounded puppy dog
faces.

Damn but I wanted to dance with him now. It
wasn’t a heavily contemplated decision; it was an impulse, like
grabbing a scandal mag when you’re on the checkout line at the
supermarket. I took another sip of the margarita and instantly
realized that it was one sip too many. My brain felt like it had
broken loose and was floating around in my head—okay, I’m not being
literal. Now, I’ve been over the edge before and knew the jeopardy
of those murky, chartered waters. A girl like me, a girl with
issues and secrets knew better than to lose control, but he took my
hand and gently led me onto the dance floor. I didn’t put up a
fight. Something inside said, “Take it slow,” but the dance beat
said, “Don’t listen.” The beat said, “Shake your ass and have a
good time.”

Gabi watched like a hawk from her post at the
bar. She gave me that “I’ve got my eye on you” gesture that DeNiro
made famous in those
Focker
movies. I acknowledged with a
nod. It was my tether to stability, and to reality. Although it was
meant to keep me centered, in actuality it gave me a false sense of
security. It made me feel as if someone was looking after me and
that no wrong could take place while Gabi was on guard.

Now, the odds of maintaining control were not
in my favor; I had a primo buzz going on, and the DJ started to
spin Katy Perry. I mean, it was like a setup or something. I’m
normally a pretty adult type of thinker, but I was getting swept up
in the moment and didn’t feel like acting like an adult. I just
wanted to have fun: screw summer session, screw the Long Island job
market, a dwindling bank balance, pressure, and responsibility.
Screw it all, just for a little while. I was not the responsible
girl I needed to be, and for the moment, I didn’t care.

Gabi still had her eye on me. I had the
feeling she would rip me off the dance floor if she became
concerned about me. I was glad that she was watching. Did it mean
that I didn’t have to?

Now, Vincent had some moves. He was a good
dancer, a bit of a showboat, and I was doing my best to keep up
with him. It wasn’t long before things started to head south. We’ve
all been there, teetering over the abyss but knowing you had what
it took to pull yourself back to safety. I tried to think a simple
thought through to a conclusion, to test myself on something I had
studied in school that afternoon. I tried and tried, but I couldn’t
string my thoughts together. The heat, the adrenaline, and the
alcohol were all conspiring against me.

I looked back toward the bar for Gabi. She
would see that I needed help. I never thought for a minute that she
wouldn’t be there when I needed her. She was always there, whether
I asked or not. I caught a glimpse of her, heading to the ladies
room. She looked like she was going to be sick.
Shit!
My
head began to spin, and then the world started to close in around
me. It grew darker and darker as the tunnel narrowed before me. I
was no longer dancing. I was standing on the dance floor, doing my
best to stay upright. I began to scan the faces around me for
someone who might help. I had made casual contact with the
bartender and the DJ during the evening, but I was unable to make
eye contact with either of them now.

After a moment I realized that everyone on
the dance floor had begun to stare at me. I had become
that
girl
, the one who couldn’t keep her shit together—the one to
stay clear of or she would hurl all over you. Did anyone care
enough to help?

What to do? Find a chair. Put my head down
to keep the blood flowing to my brain.

There was only one person I could turn to for
help, one person, who just happened to be a total stranger. I
looked up at Vincent, hoping that he would turn out to be the guy I
needed him to be. I searched his eyes to see if he understood, to
see if he was concerned, and to see if he was going to be there for
me. I searched his eyes for all those things, but what I saw
chilled my heart and dashed any hope to bits. I didn’t see concern
or empathy in his eyes. He was not judging me, and he did not seem
alarmed. He was staring at me coolly, like a lizard about to devour
a fly. He was waiting for me to pass out.