Read Online The Red Storm by Grant Bywaters - Free Book Online Page A

French doors opened to a dining room where an elderly woman sat almost in the dark. Her face was old and withered and looked like it had been worn out long before its time. Wrinkles lined her colorless skin, and her hair was the shade of ash. Thick glasses covered her tired, puffy eyelids.
    â€œYou really should stop waiting up for me,” Zella said.
    â€œSorry, child. I get worried when you are out so late. A terrible fright comes over me.”
    â€œStop being such a flat tire, auntie! I can handle myself fine without you being as jumpy as a cat. Besides, I got Mr. Fletcher here. He’s going to be watching over me.”
    The old woman looked at me with either disdain or disgust, likely both.
    â€œI don’t much approve of you bringing his kind into my house,” she said.
    â€œYour house? I’m paying for this place, and it’s only because you’re family that I’m letting you park here. I should’ve told you to take it on the heel and toe the minute you started scaring off every decent boy that came calling. But I didn’t.”
    With shaky hands, the frail woman stood up with her ivory-handled cane. “I don’t have to take this from you, child. I’ll pray tonight that someday some sense comes over you.”
    She limped out through one of the doors, which led to her room.
    â€œShe ain’t so bad,” Zella said. “She gets grumpy when I’m out late.”
    â€œI’m sure she’s a ball during daytime hours.”
    â€œNot really, but what you gonna do? Anyway, enough of that. I’m going to fix myself for bed. It’s late and I’d hate for you to drive back to wherever you live. You can sleep on the couch if you like. I’ll be sure to bring you some blankets.”
    â€œDon’t bother, it’s a warm night,” I said.
    â€œSuit yourself.”
    Zella exited through one of the doors. I strolled into the drawing room. It was fitted with a black leather Chesterfield sofa in front of a polished steel and brass coffee table. On top of the quarter-inch-thick glass top were a few fashion magazines and an empty ashtray.
    I fished a cigarette out of my pocket, and was midway through smoking it when the smell of lavender drew me to the door. Zella was leaning against the entryway. Her robe was open enough to reveal her black camisole and lace-trimmed tap pants.
    â€œI’m off to bed,” she said.
    I crooked my head away from her and said, “I’ll see about fixin’ some coffee when you get up.”
    â€œThat’d be grand,” she said, and left.
    The rest of the night was quiet, except for the chirp of various night birds and outside traffic. I lay awake smoking and looking up at the ceiling.
    I struggled to think of the situation at hand. All I could focus on was Zella in her black underwear. I cursed my weakness. It didn’t matter that she was the daughter of a man I came to loathe. A daughter I was helping perhaps because of some misguided belief that she could be the redemption for all the ugliness Storm had caused, and by helping her I could try to wipe my own hands clean.
    Yet, tonight she showed she wanted some sort of control over me by using a tool women had used for their benefit for centuries. That being the womanly art of seduction. I did not know what her goal was in trying to do this, but I needed to refocus.
    Abstaining from sexual thoughts was something I learned long ago in training camp. The old wisdom of sex weakening a fighter before he even steps into the ring had been passed on to me by my trainer. I do not think he actually believed it, but he knew it was a good way to keep his fighters out of trouble and focused on training.
    I dispensed with my thoughts and was at last able to sleep. But it wasn’t peaceful. I never slept peacefully. I dreamt of another man I had tried hard to forget, Hank Doyle. Hank was a good young heavyweight who also wanted a crack at the belt. A