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Cruisin' With Vengeance
by Roosevelt Mompremier
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Description
In Roosevelt Mompremier's second novel, Rick Solomon is accused by Rachel Tolar and her friends of rape. But there is one problem -- he didn't do it. While in prison, he changes for the worse after experiencing degradation and abuse. Now he wants to get back at the girls responsible for placing him in a living hell.
"Cruisin' with Vengeance depicts how the judicial system had blatantly railroaded Rick Solomon despite his innocence," Mompremier said. "More importantly, this is a story about the darker side of vengeance and the importance of forgiveness — before it's too late. It's witty, sexy and inspirational. People from Florida to Florence can relate to the imaginative nature of this chronicle."
Solomon first gets his chance at revenge on Tolar's friends. After seeing this take place, she boards Redemption to escape this dangerous man -- not knowing that Solomon is aboard the ship. But she will have some help in trying to survive. A veteran of the Miami Shores Police Department, Ross Leblanc, is on the ship trying to get a break from the dangers on land thanks to the support of his co-workers.
But unfortunately, this cruise is dangerous for everyone aboard. Add in a late surprising twist and Cruisin' with Vengeance is sure to make readers on cruise ships look for a way to shore.
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Book's Coolest Exceprts
Rachel left the bar, and a short time later, she arrived at the psychic's place. The room was dark with woven drapes. The smell of incense and candles permeated the air. A crystal ball and Tarot card sat on a mantle. A nervous Rachel sat quietly in front of Alexis, who was in a trance. Another older woman sat nearby. After a couple minutes of silence, Alexis began speaking in tones of great authority. "You were born and raised in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania." "How did you know that?"
The older lady raised a fi nger. "Shh!"
Alexis continued, "You lost your parents at a very young age. You moved to South Florida to stay with a cousin. You performed many jobs to make ends meet."
Rachel's head swam. What a diff erence five minutes made. As Rachel had driven over to Alexis's, she had been in total control of herself, rehearsing in her head how she would react during the session. "To get the best out of the reading," a friend had suggested, "you should relax and try to keep your mind blank. While sitting in the chair in front of Alexis, take a position and hold it. No extraneous body movements as the reading is given. And if Alexis pushes you to speak, say, 'maybe or I'm not sure.' Also, keep track of everything you said. Th e hits and misses, especially, because there's a tendency to be impressed by the hits in psychic readings and to ignore the misses." Now, as Rachel listened to Alexis, she felt like she was in less control.
"You went on many cruises," added Alexis. "They were fun, until the day you were raped."
Rachel struggled to stay calm and keep her mind blank at all times, and she did not give any verbal cues, just in case psychics could really read people's minds. She was determined to proceed with caution, trying to make it as tough as possible for Alexis, hoping that the reading would be wrong. But her efforts were indeed in vain. Instead, Alexis was now reading her like a book.
"And an innocent man was blamed."
While Alexis was silent for a moment, Rachel's thoughts turned back three years. Though the room was comfortably cool, Rachel felt warm and confused, as confused as she had been on board that ship. "How do you know all this?" she finally asked.
"There's a black aura around your body that can only be removed on another cruise."
Rachel's mind was racing. "But why would I need another cruise?"
With confidence Alexis said, "Someone is planning your future, and you will bond with the sea."
Rachel closed her eyes and sighed in relief. "A marriage?" she whispered.
Alexis nodded, and whispered, too. "Yes. Definitely."
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Ross awoke nauseated. The kid was only a nightmare. Ross had a vivid mental picture of what might have happened if the dream was reality: his brains would have been found splattered all over the place, and Kim's body would probably have been mutilated. Lying in bed, he glanced at a picture of September, his late wife, who had died seven years earlier. The picture was the only artwork in the master bedroom. She was standing on a boat in sailing clothes with their daughter, Kim, who was only ten years old at the time. In the picture, Kim was blonde, fair, soft, beautiful, and shining with a very special innocence. Ross studied September's exotic features in the almost-real colors of Kodachrome, reflecting on the long years of solitude and grief. Ross tried to place himself there, next to her. But when he couldn't, he reached out, grabbed the photograph. Pressing it against his chest, he willed time to turn back, wishing that their lives had turned out differently. The urgency of being with September grew so intense that at one point Ross could even feel and smell the soft texture of her skin.
"Don't leave me, please," he whispered, and his entire body shook. "I still love you."
Inevitably, no weight of passion could hold the memory of a lost one forever. September's soft skin scent retreated like an ascending balloon, and was soon beyond his reach. Ross gave his head a vehement shake to clear his mind from his past, which never stopped haunting him. And then, in a fit of irrational fear, he put the picture down and ran to the basement stairs leading to Kim's bedroom. Th e room was empty. Ross's heart seemed to have swelled to the point of bursting. Then he caught a glance of the ornate digital Seiko clock. The time was thirty-fi ve past eight. Only then did he realize that Kim had already gone to school and that it was Friday morning.
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Except for a for a 1986 Playboy calendar in one corner, Rick's apartment was bare. But he didn't care because he didn't long for luxury. What mattered the most to him for now was privacy. After his conversation with Kim, he sat in bed going through his carryall bag, his only possession, and extracted a small notebook that looked the worse for the wear. He opened it to reveal pages of writing that consisted of just three letters: C.I.R.Then Rick removed a knife from a kitchen drawer, stepped upon a stool and started carving letters into the ceiling. As he carved the C, he said, "Carol. I hope you like your new home." As he carved the I, he said, "And sometimes it doesn't pay to be a follower, Isabelle." And finally, as he carved the R, he said, "And rest assured, Rachel. You will be last." He stepped down to admire his handiwork. A cold smile crossed his lips. "And wherever you are, bimbos, I will find you."
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Carl Levy was fast asleep when the phone rang. Either his ex-wife died and went straight to hell with a one-way ticket, or a rape had occurred and Ross was in hot pursuit. Who else would call at such hour? "Hello?"
"Carl? It's Kim."
"Beg your pardon?" he mumbled sleepily.
"It's Kim, Ross's daughter. You just had dinner with us, remember?"
"Oh, Kim," he said, sitting up and reaching for a light. The sudden brightness of the fluorescent made him squint. "Is everything all right?"
He glanced at his watch: 1:31 am.
"Yeah, everything is fine."
"So, uh, what's up?"
"Uh, I just need someone to talk to."
"At this time in the morning?"
"No. I want you to come to the house tomorrow morning."
Feeling awkward and stupid for his reaction, Carl said, "I don't understand."
Kim said, "I know, but you're the only person can trust." And as if it was an afterthought, she added, "It's very important."
Carl hesitated. "But—"
"Don't worry about Dad," she reassured. He doesn't have a clue about what I do. In fact, he'll be playing golf tomorrow. So can I count on you or not?"
Just his luck. "Yeah, yeah, sure." He said reluctantly.
"So, I'll see you tomorrow morning at ten, right?"
"Sure."
Carl looked at the receiver and pondered his dilemma. His head was spinning slowly as he closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.
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Twenty minutes later, Rachel was in North Miami. That morning was fantastic, with a blue sky, light wind, blazing sunshine, and the temperature hovering in the low eighties. A true tropical climate. It was exactly 9:03 am as she walked up to Carol's front door. Confidently, she knocked on the door. Nobody responded. She knocked again. Nothing. She peered through the front window. "Carol, are you in there?"
The place seemed deserted, and Carol didn't answer. A shiver shot down Rachel's spine. She found the door unlocked, and pushed it open. The hinge made a screechy sound that sent a chill from her toes to her spine. But the door was held back by an obstruction. She nervously reached down to remove the obstacle as she entered, and found herself screaming at the sight of the cat's brains spilling all over the carpet. Her stomach tightened up, and her skin turned cold. She looked out the door, thinking she should run, but she quickly decided against it. Rachel's legs grew weak as she stepped into the house, and walked through the kitchen and down the hall. "Carol, are you in here?"
There wasn't a sound. Nothing. Silence. In the back of Rachel's mind, she knew that she should calm down. Losing it now was not going to help either Carol or herself. But with the sight of the dead cat and the silent house pressing in on her, she was temporarily incapable of rational behavior.
"Carol, please answer me."
No response. Five seconds Ten. Fifteen. Thirty. A thin film formed on her brow. She was fighting back tears, shaking, and struggling keep her mounting fear at bay as she entered the guest bathroom. It dark. She fumbled for the light switch and clicked it on. Soft light illuminated the bathroom. The room was clean, but Rachel stared at the shower curtain. She hesitated, and then she drew the curtain back. Nothing. Drops of water made a soft tink as they fell from the shower faucet onto the metal topper of the tub.
Rachel's fear increased as she backed out of the bathroom, took two steps across the hall, and stood in front of the door of the master bedroom. A fly buzzed behind her ear, startled her. Panic-stricken, she turned around too fast and almost lost her balance. She was chilled, drenched in sweat, and little speckles were dancing on the insides of her eye. "Stay calm," she told herself. "Stay cool." Carol probably got away the minute she realized an intruder was in the house. She's all right, Rachel thought.
Rachel twisted the doorknob, but the sweat on her hand made it slick. She wiped her hand on her clothes and turned the knob again. She hesitated, trying to build up enough courage to open the bedroom door. Suddenly, the bolt snapped open with a hard clink. She winced as the spring latch scraped softly out of its notch, and she pushed the door open just a crack, prepared to slam it shut at the slightest sign of movement. But she didn't open the bedroom door. Couldn't. Not yet. True terror lay in the anticipation of the unknown. The suspense was getting unbearable. A coldness rose in the pit of her stomach. Her breath quick-frozen in her lungs, each beat of her heart was like the concrete-busting of a jackhammer. Open the damned door, for fuck sakes! she thought. She realized that she had been hesitating for a couple of minutes. Carol is not dead in there. And there's nothing to be worried about.
She had to prove herself that nothing had happened to Carol. She had to prove herself that even though she had been a coward, a nervous wreck all her life, deep down she was strong and never ran away from trouble. So, she must go in. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door wider—two inches, three inches, four inches—expecting to see nothing but Carol's neat and organized bedroom. But when she looked inside she could not believe what she saw, and did not know how to react to it, other than with disgust and horror. Carol's mutilated body was nailed to the bed's headboard like Jesus on the cross. Her mouth had been sliced open several times. It protruded grotesquely, with hideous blisters on the upper lip. Her nose was swollen, streaked with blood. White sticky suppuration that could be sperm was coagulated all over her face. The blood and knife wounds created a road map on her body. She appeared to have died slowly, and to have been dead for several hours.
Gagging with revulsion, Rachel stumbled backward one step, bile rising in her stomach. She didn't dare to look at the corpse. She tried to puke, but couldn't. Her throat instantly seemed to be clogged, as if she was being swept away by a frozen and turbulent river, suffocating in its bitter waters, fighting for breath but finding none. She plunged back into the hall to the living room, staggered, and nearly fell. Her legs muscles felt like they were on fire.Grief welled up in her, black and cold. Th e heavy beat of her heart was too much to bear. She felt like she'd been kicked in the stomach by a thousand horses.
Shuffling forward, she managed to reach the kitchen. The front door, her only escape, seemed like it was a mile away. Her legs felt like they weighed a million tons. Rachel gasped, unable to get enough breath, as if the air was thick or full with acrid smoke, Her throat was raw. Never had she felt so sick at heart. Her head was spinning, and her entire being became still. Unable to go on, she huddled against the wall. Her head shook so much, she felt like she might crumble into a million pieces. It took her a superhuman effort to crawl outside to get help. By the time a neighbor arrived, she was numb, exhausted, and in shock.
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Rick sped after the Camry on the deserted turnpike. There was road construction ahead and a no passing lane. The two-lane highway was becoming narrower. He kept fingering the weapon as he moved closer. With the speedometer registering ninety miles an hour, Rick thought this was exciting. He was now half a mile from her. Then, as he passed a sign announcing the entrance to Palm Beach County, he noticed in the rearview mirror an eighteen-wheeler barreling down on him, closing in fast. Rick stepped harder on the accelerator, desperately trying to catch not only Isabelle, but to get some distance between him and the truck. If not, the truck was surely going to slam into his minivan and run right over him. "Motherfucker," he said loudly.
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Th e M/S Redemption was a marvel of design and a mastery of engineering. It was dazzlingly conceived and soundly constructed. According the ship's newspaper, the super liner had more innovations than any cruise ship ever built. Strands of neon lights stretched for miles and miles along the deck overlooking the Grand Atrium. Excellent traffic-flow design made for ease in finding the different public rooms, and the private abins. Access to other decks from the lobby was facilitated by two glass-enclosed elevators, and elegant staircases curving upward to Atlantic Deck. State-of-the-art lighting and sound systems were featured in the showrooms.
It had taken some fifty design engineers and had cost well over four hundred forty million dollars to bring the ship online. The M/S Redemption, a floating palace, had the most modern electronic computer equipment and satellite-run wheelhouse, and enclosed wings that projected well beyond the sides of the ship. Armed with powerful diesel engine and a two-propeller propulsion system, the ship had a maximum speed of twenty-two knots. It had taken three-and-years to build the ship, equal to about two-and-a half million working hours. Forty-one hundred people had been involved in the construction of the ship.
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On the top deck, Ross and Dolly clutched each other in hilarity as they stood near the railings. "You know something?" Ross said, beginning to tenderly massage Dolly's back. They were at the very aft end of the ship, which was now inhabited by just the tawdry few. "When I looked into your eyes in the dining room tonight, I swore that you were a sexual magnet that could attract men from the four corners of the world."
Dolly giggled, her body tingling all You really felt that way?"
Ross was totally amused and surprised at the turn of events. "How couldn't I feel that way?"
"I take compliments well," said seductively.
Ross kissed her. He inhaled fresh smell of her hair when it tangled in his mouth. Now he was beginning to massage from her nape down. And when Ross's fi ngertips found an especially sore spot just to the right of the third cervical vertebra, which he worked with lover's tender touch, Dolly began to groan softly, "Nice. Very nice."
"Love that?" he asked, well aware of the fact she did.
Dolly murmured, "Hmm. Think I'm falling in love. You?"
Ross didn't answer. He pretended he didn't hear her. Did that mean he was falling in love with her? That was a question that he had never needed to ask himself before. Love? It's impossible, he told himself. I can't be in love with a woman I only met a couple of hours ago. I hardly know anything about her. No one falls in love overnight.
Ironically, he was falling in love with her, just like in the movies. He was falling in love with her because he was on a cruise ship, a love boat where anything was possible. It was a unique vacation place where you could find the most beautiful, ugliest, ignorant, smartest, dumbest, most racist, self-absorbed, greediest, most generous, laid-back, meanest, nicest, craziest, funniest, and weirdest people from all facets of life—all in the pursuit of having fun.:)
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Ok...are you having fun? Wanna know what happened next? All right, here's the deal before you get to read the final excerpt: I need your feedback please. If you've read this far, I assume you have found it interesting. Need I say more? Thank you for your time, share it with your friends, and I look forward to hearing from you!
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All Rick Solomon craved was vengeance. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less. Vengeance was his business. Only his. Those who had trespassed against him would be harshly punished. And he would waste thousands of lives, or even the whole world if necessary. That was the extreme to which he was driven. He wasn't sorry for Derek. He was with the wrong woman in the wrong place at the wrong time. Besides, everything was born only to die. Disappointment was inevitable in life. because pain was the common lot, Rick believed that one must always accept pain, and live without fear and remorse. Whistling a tune just made up, Rick knocked on the door of cabin U7.
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