She Do Run Run
Author: Amy Swifton
Genre: Romantic Suspense
Date Published: September 26, 2017
Publisher: Broadback
Book Description:
She Do Run Run is a fast, double-shot-of-espresso read. Its heart-racing story can be consumed in a few quick hours.
Jenny’s life is shattered when her Special Ops husband is killed. To escape the pain, she falls into a dangerous cycle of random sex and booze, and one night she kills a violent man.
She runs off into the unknown, desperate to survive and change her life. That’s when Lieutenant Jon Dowling appears.
Enraged, KC bounced off the bed, faltered, then whirled about to face me. He broke for me, spitting threats and curses, his giant shadow of a body charging. I felt a twist of terror in the pit of my stomach.
I slipped the Luger from my purse easily—feeling the cool, sticky grip. There was no time to shout out a warning. He was coming—a charging, killing animal. I squeezed off two shots. The impact stunned him, jerked him erect. Froze him. I could see his eyes, wide in the bright flash of yellow neon. He heaved out a loud breath, like a snort.
“You shot me, you bitch! I’ll kill you! You fuckin’ shot me! I’ll kill you!”
He came at me, a big angry bear reaching. I fired two more shots. I watched in horror as he teetered, and stumbled backwards off-balance. He bounced off the wall, face blank, and dropped like a heavy sack. I felt the thud of his body shake the floor under my bare feet.
I stood breathing, sweating, heart kicking. I knew he was dead. I didn’t need to check. I mean, I shot him four times, for Chrissake! Did anyone hear the shots? I strained my ears. Dead quiet. Were there people next door? Would someone call the police?
Strangely, I felt calm—incredibly calm. Where was the shock? Methodically, I slipped the handgun back into my purse. Then I realized I was naked. I found my clothes, slipped them on, turned the room lights on dim and searched the room, refusing to look at KC, making sure I hadn’t left anything: still had my earrings, watch, phone, purse. Would there be finger prints? Maybe. I knew, from some of Kyle’s police buddies, that prints were hard to find. I hadn’t touched many things. I hadn’t even drunk from a glass or used a towel. What about hair in the bed? A broken nail? No time to search. Impossible anyway.
I turned off the lights and slipped out of the motel into a dark humid night. The motel office was 70 feet or so away and, fortunately, I hadn’t stepped inside the office with KC when he registered. I had not been seen. I listened for police sirens. Nothing. Strange.
We had come on KC’s motorcycle, leaving my car in the bar’s parking lot. I’d have to walk the five miles or so, and I did, keeping my head low, edging along in the shadows.
When I arrived back at the bar, the parking lot was still bloated with motorcycles, trucks and old dinged up cars. I glanced about, saw a couple locked in a kiss near the front door, climbed into my car, cranked the engine and drove away, still feeling oddly calm. Why? I had just killed a man.
The police would soon be looking for the killer, of course. The bartender had seen me, and the man who had moved to give me his barstool, had seen me. Would they remember what I looked like? As far as I knew, they were the only ones. No one knew my name or anything else about me. Still, there was no doubt the police would find some evidence. If there was hair in the bed, they’d run a DNA test. This was Florida after all, and Florida cops weren’t stupid, at least not the ones Kyle and I had known.
So, what now? I drove, and drove, and kept on driving. I lost track of time and place, my mind soon entranced by the blurring white lines of the road, by the hum of the car engine and the expanding, chilling realization that I’d just killed a man.
When the characters keep me up nights, I feel good about the story.
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EXCERPT
Enraged, KC bounced off the bed, faltered, then whirled about to face me. He broke for me, spitting threats and curses, his giant shadow of a body charging. I felt a twist of terror in the pit of my stomach.
I slipped the Luger from my purse easily—feeling the cool, sticky grip. There was no time to shout out a warning. He was coming—a charging, killing animal. I squeezed off two shots. The impact stunned him, jerked him erect. Froze him. I could see his eyes, wide in the bright flash of yellow neon. He heaved out a loud breath, like a snort.
“You shot me, you bitch! I’ll kill you! You fuckin’ shot me! I’ll kill you!”
He came at me, a big angry bear reaching. I fired two more shots. I watched in horror as he teetered, and stumbled backwards off-balance. He bounced off the wall, face blank, and dropped like a heavy sack. I felt the thud of his body shake the floor under my bare feet.
I stood breathing, sweating, heart kicking. I knew he was dead. I didn’t need to check. I mean, I shot him four times, for Chrissake! Did anyone hear the shots? I strained my ears. Dead quiet. Were there people next door? Would someone call the police?
Strangely, I felt calm—incredibly calm. Where was the shock? Methodically, I slipped the handgun back into my purse. Then I realized I was naked. I found my clothes, slipped them on, turned the room lights on dim and searched the room, refusing to look at KC, making sure I hadn’t left anything: still had my earrings, watch, phone, purse. Would there be finger prints? Maybe. I knew, from some of Kyle’s police buddies, that prints were hard to find. I hadn’t touched many things. I hadn’t even drunk from a glass or used a towel. What about hair in the bed? A broken nail? No time to search. Impossible anyway.
I turned off the lights and slipped out of the motel into a dark humid night. The motel office was 70 feet or so away and, fortunately, I hadn’t stepped inside the office with KC when he registered. I had not been seen. I listened for police sirens. Nothing. Strange.
We had come on KC’s motorcycle, leaving my car in the bar’s parking lot. I’d have to walk the five miles or so, and I did, keeping my head low, edging along in the shadows.
When I arrived back at the bar, the parking lot was still bloated with motorcycles, trucks and old dinged up cars. I glanced about, saw a couple locked in a kiss near the front door, climbed into my car, cranked the engine and drove away, still feeling oddly calm. Why? I had just killed a man.
The police would soon be looking for the killer, of course. The bartender had seen me, and the man who had moved to give me his barstool, had seen me. Would they remember what I looked like? As far as I knew, they were the only ones. No one knew my name or anything else about me. Still, there was no doubt the police would find some evidence. If there was hair in the bed, they’d run a DNA test. This was Florida after all, and Florida cops weren’t stupid, at least not the ones Kyle and I had known.
So, what now? I drove, and drove, and kept on driving. I lost track of time and place, my mind soon entranced by the blurring white lines of the road, by the hum of the car engine and the expanding, chilling realization that I’d just killed a man.
About the Author
I'm a Florida-based writer, who loves all things romantic, with a shot of suspense. I also love to write Time Travel Novels.When the characters keep me up nights, I feel good about the story.
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