Rich Blood (Jason Rich Book 1)

Waylon Pike had never killed anyone before.

He’d done other things. Terrible, awful things. Some of which he’d served time for doing. Some he hadn’t.

But in his forty-two miserable years on this earth, he’d never taken a life.

He’d thought it would be harder. That there would be cold feet, nerves, something.

But Waylon didn’t feel a damn thing.

As he waited for the car that would take him on his way to do the deed, Waylon cast his rod back in the water and gawked at the fireworks lighting up Lake Guntersville. He wondered how many of these pyrotechnic devices had been purchased at one of the outlets in and around his home in South Pittsburg, Tennessee. Waylon had worked a job in high school at the supercenter off the interstate and learned quite a bit about roman candles, smoke bombs, missiles, rockets, crossettes, ground spinners, and every other kind of firework you could think of. He’d always had an affinity for explosives. Both the ones that provided visual entertainment . . .

. . . and the devices that did a little more than decorate the sky.

His first brush with the law had been for lighting a roman candle in a friend’s truck and shooting the projectile out the window at an oncoming car. He’d gotten youthful offender status, and the misdemeanor didn’t even show up on his record. Waylon should have been relieved to escape punishment, but, if anything, his initial foray into crime only made him want to go further. When he was nineteen, he’d torched a restaurant at the behest of the owner for the insurance proceeds. The fire was investigated, but he was never charged or suspected of arson. The owner gave him 10 percent of the payout, and Waylon was on his way to a career of being a “fixer” for people.

And a life of trouble. He had a rap sheet that included convictions for theft, arson, and possession of cocaine, and he’d served two different stints in prison, the last of which had wrapped up a year ago.

Waylon wondered as he reeled his line back in and recast if he’d ever had a chance in life. If the stars were just aligned for him to be a criminal.

When he’d met Jana Waters, he’d felt that his luck had changed. She was a rich, bored housewife who seemed to be tortured by her life of affluence. They’d met at a bar and gotten drunk, and then he’d enjoyed her talents inside her vehicle in the parking lot of the bar. Waylon smiled at the memory. Since that initial romp, Jana had hired him to do an endless array of handyman tasks at the family mansion on Buck Island. She’d also referred him to some of her rich friends, and so he’d made a handsome wage these last nine months. Waylon had been a terrible student, but he was great with his hands. Whether he was hired for engine repair, house fixer-upper projects, or boat maintenance, he was a “good man to have around,” as Jana had told him and her friends. He had to admit that he enjoyed going legit. Doing honest work and getting paid for it. Of course, he was screwing another man’s wife, but all was fair in love and war, right? Adultery was a sin, not a crime. And he was going to hell anyway. Might as well go happy.

Waylon had known it couldn’t last. Before long, he figured he’d be dragged back into his old life. Something or someone would pull him to crossing over again. It was as inevitable as Auburn rolling Toomer’s Corner after a big win or an Alabama loss.

He hadn’t figured that Jana Waters would be the instrument behind his return to his seedier past, but life was full of surprises, wasn’t it? He glanced at his watch and then back at the lake. The night was dark now, but there would be more fireworks. It was the Fourth of July after all.

He reeled the line back in and grabbed his tackle box. Then he crossed the highway and climbed into his truck. Just a fisherman finishing up for the day.

He still had a few minutes before the pickup would happen, but he remained calm. Cool. Almost numb.

In approximately sixty minutes, he would kill a man.

Waylon Pike watched the fireworks show. And waited

Jana Waters gazed into her almost empty glass of vodka. She bit her lip and then drank the rest before sliding it across the bar and standing.

“Leaving us so soon, Ms. Waters?” the bartender asked with a tease in his voice.

On a normal night, Jana might blow the handsome young lad a kiss. What was his name? Keith? Kenny? She couldn’t remember. But tonight, her heart wasn’t in it.

“Will you be here tomorrow?” he asked.

Jana blinked, managing to find her patented fake smile. “If you’re lucky.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, his face blushing.

Jana turned and walked toward the exit. Fire by the Lake was a restaurant that sat right on Lake Guntersville off Highway 69. It had been one of her favorite haunts for years, even before the ownership changed. She felt eyes on her as she strode toward the door. That was nothing new. Jana Waters always left a wake coming and going.

She walked to her car, keeping her shoulders back and eyes forward. The wind off the lake was warm and sticky. When she reached her Mercedes SUV, she gazed out at the blacktop, glaring at the huge billboard that hugged the edge of the road.

INJURED AT WORK? GET RICH.

Below the tasteless slogan was her brother’s smiling face and the message to call an equally crude telephone number—1-800 GET RICH—for legal services. She hadn’t seen Jason in three years, but he was never very far from her thoughts because she passed at least five of these monstrosities every time she drove anywhere. Guntersville to Boaz on Highway 431. I-65 all the way to the beach. Hell, even Lusk Road past Signal Point to Alder Springs.

It didn’t matter. Jason’s billboards were everywhere, and in each of the highway posters he flashed his bleach-whitened teeth and dirty-blond stubble, which some woman—probably his trashy ex-wife or his bitchy law partner—must’ve told him looked cool. Jana thought he looked ridiculous, and she’d told him as much the last time they’d spoken. She’d told him a lot of things then, and he’d fired some choice words back. Seeing him now, smiling down at her as if he were enjoying the crisis she was in, made her want to vomit. She stuck her middle finger at the advertisement and slid into the driver’s seat. Before starting the car, she sucked in a deep breath and felt her heart rate speed up.

She glanced at the clock on the dash. 8:55 p.m. The meeting was supposed to happen at 9:00. As she backed up her vehicle and turned for the exit, she glanced out the window at the dark water and full moon. A cascade of roman candles lit up the sky followed by the machine-gun sound of God knew how many other kinds of fireworks.

It was the Fourth of July. She should be sitting on the screened porch of her home on Buck Island, watching the show with her husband and daughters. Maybe walking down to the dock for a better look. Grilling dogs and burgers. Listening to Darius Rucker or Kenny Chesney or some other lake-appropriate artist. Maybe the girls could’ve had friends over. Or perhaps a boyfriend?

Jana felt her eyes welling up, and she ground her teeth, refusing to wipe away the tears. She glared at the billboard of her brother again.

She would not be weak. That had never been her style, and it wouldn’t be now.

She pulled the Mercedes onto Highway 69 and accelerated east toward town. As the strip mall drew near, she clicked the right-turn blinker and pulled into the lot. She parked under an unlit streetlamp. Ten seconds later, the passenger-side door opened, and a man climbed inside. He smelled of mint chewing gum with the slightest tinge of body odor. Jana fought the urge to gag.

“Ready?” he asked.

Jana tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. She glanced at him, nodded, and edged out of the space.

Seconds later, she was back on the road.

As she passed the causeway, fireworks illuminating the lake, Jana thought of her girls. And Braxton. Her husband.

What in the hell am I doing?