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NEXT OF KIN, O.E. Soderberg — Adult Thriller


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OPENING SCENE: 

Introduces Ezra Porter (the protagonist) just after his senator father (the antagonist) made his first move against his son. A disturbance comes in the form of discovering his father’s motives from a reporter who wants Ezra’s help in taking down the senator. When Ezra realizes he can secure the proof for the accusations against his father himself, he decides to beat the New Yorker to print and use this story to cut the strings of his father’s control. Setting, tone, obstacles, and stakes for all parties involved are revealed in this scene taken from the first chapter.

 

 

I’m distracted again. Not by thoughts of my father, but the movement of some guy down the block. This city always smells of sour milk and decomposing flesh, but suddenly I’m hyper aware of it. The fight or flight instinct has turned on like a light switch. And my senses are firing at peak levels when I realize this creep down the street sneaking glances at me isn’t a crackhead seeing things, it’s that leach of a reporter, Trey Edwards.

“Fucking hell, not today,” I say under my breath as I shove my hands in my pockets and try to make fleeing the scene look casual. I round the corner and look to see if he’s following. He is. Ten years ago, this walking byline was entering his early thirties, desperate to break a story. And boy did he fucking do it. An exposé crediting my high school girlfriend and me getting caught fucking outside her mom’s megachurch as the event that ultimately caused the small town of Oak Haven, Texas to lose 500 jobs. I’ve been trying to distance myself from that story—and this fuckhead—ever since.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him step on and off the curb. Trey is someone with all the ingredients of a great person—investigative journalist, rural small-town family, charitable—but trust me, he’s a certified scumbag. Out for number one. He needs something, and he’ll use me to get it.

This isn’t the first time he’s conveniently run into me, usually banking on small talk to somehow confirm his suspicion that my father and I work together. We don’t. But following me like a rat toward the scent of New York sidewalk trash feels downright invasive. I decide to get this over with and say as little as possible.

“Why are you here, Trey?” I ask, not bothering to turn to face him.

The scumbag answers, talking to my back and matching each of my foot falls along the pavement. “Because I know daddy needs you home. Maybe now you’ll be willing to talk.”

Confirmed. He knows I’m a fucking puppet, and Jack Porter is pulling the strings. We’re both aware my father didn’t build his wealth on intellect or ingenuity. No, he’s climbed to the top by being a ruthlessly selfish master of manipulation. I’m not even the slightest bit surprised I’m his latest victim. I find it hard to believe that would surprise Trey either. But the intrigue as to how he already knows is too much to fight off. I stop, whirling around to see him. “How do you know?”

Trey’s standing near the curb with an old school briefcase in one hand, a shit eating grin on his face, and taking in the scowl marking my features like the cat that got the fucking milk. He’s noted there will be no pleasantries. He’s right. There won’t be.

“Because the only logical choice he has left is to fall back on nepotism,” he says.

Not an answer dumb fuck. We’ve debated this already. It seems to be the topic du jour every time we run into each other like this. We both agree nepotism is problematic in the best of situations. It’s terrible for company morale and a breeding ground for corruption. Sure, I’d claim the act of hiring or transitioning power to kin is in and of itself corrupt, but he’d argue I’m too focused on the act and not the motives. It’s almost always an indication that there’s a need to maintain secrecy. But unfortunately for Trey, I know nothing. I haven’t gotten my hands dirty, and I plan on keeping it that way.

I wait Trey out, wondering if he knows how fucked I am too. Does he know about the debt?

“Why now?” he asks.

Come on, man. I’m not that easy. “You’re the reporter. Tell me.”

He squints and peers into me like he thinks I’ll cave. Or more likely, calculating whether whatever he’s about to say is worth conceding. If my father taught me anything it’s that everyone is negotiating. Always. And now, I’m interested in what he knows.

“It’s an election year,” he spits out. And sure enough, the first bargaining chip hits the table. “Ever stop to wonder why his opponent pushed so hard for that new prop that just passed? Up until this point holding office in Jersey while running the business in Texas was no problem. But now, it will be all but illegal for him to do both. I find it ironic that your father didn’t see that coming.”

Anger trips the live wire within my chest with electricity flowing through my extremities, seeking the nearest exit point. My heart is pounding, but I’m playing along. Feigning apathy to keep him talking. “Or he did and just happens to be ready to hand over the company.”

“A man like your father doesn’t hand over things that belong to him. I’m starting to wonder if you even know the truth, Ezra?”

I can’t stand the fact that I’m dumb enough to be hearing my father’s motives from Trey fucking Edwards. And the worst part is, I need it. But there will likely be blood when I release the tight grip of my nails into my palm because there’s no way I’ll let Trey see a hint of surprise on my face. It’s not a bargaining chip if he thinks I know what he knows.

“What do you want?” I say, calm indifference scraping my vocal cords.

“We can help each other, Ezra.”

I smile. “What, you want to run the Porter House blog?”

“No,” he says, matching my cocky attitude. “That would imply that I actually think you’ll accept your father’s offer.”

Well, unless Trey’s offering me eight hundred thousand dollars to pay off my newfound debt, there’s no use in continuing this conversation.

“We’ll see,” I say, then turn to keep walking. But it’s only a few steps before he doubles down on this negotiation. Hurls a verbal dagger that strikes a nerve I didn’t think existed anymore.

“I spoke to Henley the other day.”

Below the belt and he knows it. I should fucking leave, but that girl I’d deported from my mind for the last ten years has apparently never left home soil. Just hearing her name, a flicker of a thought snakes its way through me. I’m still in love with her. I’ve done blow and prescription shit I shouldn’t have. But I have self control—not an addictive personality. Yet somehow, that name makes me feel like a junkie waiting the twenty seconds it takes their meth to cook on a spoon over the flame.

The air rushes from my lungs in some big release. In perfect detail. In 4 fucking K. I can see her under the bleachers outside her mother’s megachurch. My dick is eighteen all over again. My mouth salivates recalling the way the mixture of foil and latex tasted as it lingered the last time I saw her. I’d brought the square packet to my lips, ripped the condom free with my teeth. Her panties dangled from her left ankle, hips circling against me as I crept her Sunday’s best up to her waist. In my head, I’m already hiding the tip. I want more of her.

But I shut that shit down. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Long story short, I’ll also never forget the light that hit her bottom lip. Not because it illuminated the way she was literally chomping at the bit for me to slide myself inside, but because of the source. A perfect angle from the Texas sun off the silver badge proudly strapped to the Oak Haven police chief’s utility belt. And because she wore her preacher’s kid persona like a second skin, the first question asked was “Is this young man forcing himself on you?”

And fuck that, like I said, I was in love with her. I didn’t force myself on her. I’m not that guy. But her route to damage control was to fall fucking silent in the face of a national scandal—yes national. The mega in megachurch can mean many things, in this case we’re talking live-national-broadcast mega. But I guess Henley chalked one up for the side of the superficial bullshit personas. Because like my father, it was all about reputation for her, and she used hers as the get out of jail free card. It worked perfectly.

I’m past the lustful memories and now fully engulfed in the betrayal. The anger pulls me back to the present. I’m not sure if I’m hardened or dead but whatever it is, I’m nothing but cold now. Trey’s loving whatever he sees on my face.

“Did you ever stop to think that maybe Jack didn’t want you close to the Jones family?”

He’s rattling me, and now my words come out with a sharpened edge. “Yeah. Because they claimed I forced myself on her. And no contact meant no police report.” I’m reminded of his article. His questions of what constitutes a conflict of interest when church and state mix, but he used our scandal to prove how the lines can become blurred. Never once mentioning the police report. I looked like the guy that used the girl and moved on. “Your lazy reporting failed to mention that part.”

“Or that part wasn’t true,” he says.

“Believe what you want, Trey.”

“Oh no, it’s believable. And Henley seemed believable as well when I saw her last week. And she claimed to have not a clue as to what I was talking about when I asked about the threat of a police report.”

“She’s lying to you.”

“Oh, someone’s lying but it’s not her. I don’t think you’re lying either. I might look a little closer to home.”

Neither of us speak. We’re staring at each other like this can only be settled with fists. But I’m reminded of what this asshole and I have in common. I hate my father as much as he does. But where Trey and I differ? Well, he wants to know what the good senator and Porter House Whiskey are hiding. He wants to reveal it. I’m well aware that the mask my father wears to the public is anything but the shadows that lurk beneath. But I want nothing to do with it. I want out. Which gets me thinking. 

What’s he onto? How much does Trey Edwards know about the man controlling the line I’m dangling on? Is it sharp enough to cut the strings?

This is the pitfall of investigative journalism. You poke your head in too many doors and someone might get smart. I just got smart. Fine, Trey. I’ll play along until I get what I need.

I slide my entitled, elitist, rich kid, son of a senator cosplay mask on without a hitch. I’m ready to participate in Trey’s game hoping his excited desperation is enough to let the act slip past him.

It works like a charm.

“Ezra,” he says, then lowers his voice. “Massive, unaccounted campaign funds have been rolling in from Houston, Texas.”

I have no idea how to process the bomb Trey just set in front of me. I’m staring at the red numbers counting down, and wondering which wire do I cut to save myself? Red? Blue? Black?

“I’m publishing an exposé. Work with me. What do you know about your father’s ties to the Calvary Megachurch, beyond your little, insignificant scandal?”

And with that one question, I pick a wire and cut. The bomb dismantles and clarity floods in to replace the panic. This isn’t about my father. Or Trey’s tireless smears of my dad’s campaigns. It’s not even about the lack of the senator’s ethics. Trey’s trying to connect Calvary Megachurch—Henley’s mother’s church—to my father’s bank accounts. And that’s why he spoke with Henley, too.

Everything stops.

I dig deeper because memories are just electrical and chemical signals in the brain that connect together in certain patterns called synapses. Simply triggering these synapses should bring about the act of remembering and they do.

She knows more.

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