Torched, Romantic Suspense

This is another in my series of women engineers and veterans taking on the bad guys

Here is the summary of Torched, which I am currently querying.

 

Here is an excerpt from the scene where Brigit fights off Dennis, the killer:

Brigit turned on some AC/DC. The hard rock was fitting demolition music. She donned leather work gloves and a pair of safety glasses. She had noticed this old, bricked-up archway on her very first tour of the building. An identical one sat directly above on the second story as well. When she asked about it during the tour, Esther explained that the two buildings had once been one business years ago, but then later split, so they bricked up the doors. Brigit asked Scooter how hard it would be to knock it down. He told her not hard at all, since it was once a door, as long as she didn’t damage the still clearly formed brick arch. He even drew a nice blue X with chalk one day when he stopped by. He offered to do it for her, but she declined.

She hefted the fifteen-pound sledge. She declined Scooter’s help, because she had planned to do this with Stephen, as sort of a groundbreaking event. Well, there was another ridiculous fantasy shattered, just like her stupid heart. God, why hadn’t I listened? Nope, too busy telling Stephen my life story. Man, did I really share all the details of Ian abusing me, beating me, raping me, shooting me, almost killing me? What had I been thinking? Why had I so blindly trusted him? Why had I let him in on all the intimate details of my life? Why had he asked if that was really what he thought of me?

She remembered that first night when they moved her sculptures and she broke down and cried. He had held her and encouraged her to talk. He told her if she needed someone, he was there for her. What had she done for him to treat her the way he did today? Why had he changed from warm and caring to cold and angry? His behavior defied all logic. She shook her head and gripped the hammer.

Taking careful aim, she began to slam away at the X with the sledgehammer, screaming at the top of her lungs with rage and pain at each stroke. The bricks cracked with a satisfying sound at each strike, exertion easing her suffering. Before she knew it, she was hit with a draft of cool air. She stopped. Most of the brick in the doorway had fallen down. Only about a foot clung to the arch at the top and about eight inches of brick at the bottom were left. Remembering Scooter’s warning about the arch, she set the large sledge down on her workbench and flexed her now aching hands, her wrists a little sore from the impact of hitting the brick with the hammer so many times. She pulled off as much of the brick as she could with her hands. Then she took her rubber mallet and tapped the rest to dislodge it. The arch stood completely open as she took a shovel and pushed the debris through the doorway into the other building. Then she swept the dust off the shop floor around the door.

She looked up at the dark-purple sky through the gaping hole in the roof. No stars were visible yet in the city haze. It was hard to tell the time. The May days were deceptively long in the Pacific Northwest, but she guessed it was early evening, maybe just after nightfall. The outer doors were still securely boarded up, so she didn’t worry about someone coming in. She planned on sliding her big tool chest in front of the hole for the night anyway. It was heavy, but it had wheels that she could lock. She had moved it by herself in the past—it was no big deal. The extra exertion would help her sleep better tonight, she told herself.

A voice in her head taunted, It would be so much easier if Stephen were here to help you.

She choked back a sob. Tears streamed down her face again. She closed her eyes and put her gloved hand on her worktable to steady herself. It encountered a mass of filmy fabric. Without thinking, she grabbed it and used it to wipe her gritty, tear-stained face. When she opened her eyes, she realized she was holding the pretty, peach chiffon dress Bran had insisted she wear for meeting with Stephen. It was now covered in dust and black streaks from the remnants of her mascara. She crushed the frilly fabric in her hands.

I was such a fool.

Her bitter rage at Stephen, Sean, Bran—at all of them—bubbled over. On impulse, she rounded the bench and grabbed the handle of her cutting torch. With a practiced flick, she lit it. She held the dress high and made a few passes underneath. It caught fire almost instantly, the acrid smell of the burning fabric filling the air. She watched it burn, indifferent, then dropped it into the metal bin next to her workbench as it disintegrated.

I was so stupid to think he wanted me; that a pretty dress and some makeup could make him want to be with me. He was just hanging out with me because his brother asked him to, because he was sorry for me. Hell, he’s dating someone else. Someone who’s probably prettier than me. Why would he want me? His brother didn’t want me, either. Why should he, when he could have someone as perfect and beautiful as Bran? I was such an idiot to trust him.

When the flame died out, she hung her head with shame at the childish, petty thing she had just done. Burning a dress wasn’t going to solve anything. It wasn’t going to ease her emptiness, thinking about and wanting Stephen. The pain and sorrow washed over her like a wave. At least now you know the truth, she told herself. You can move on, he doesn’t want you. Neither of them wants you. She sank to her knees and covered her face with her gloved hands, dropping her torch to the floor and letting the tears flow freely.

*****

Dennis watched from his car parked behind the shop. When she burned the dress, he knew he could hold back no longer. The glow from the torch igniting the fire in his blood. He ran to the back door and donned his ski mask. He crept as silently as possible through the debris, mind on fire to possess her. She would soon be his.

*****

Over the sound of Bonn Scott singing “Highway to Hell,” Brigit heard the wrenching of the plywood at the back of the building next door and the sound of rubble scattering. She rose to her feet, knees quaking as she listened. She fumbled for the remote for her stereo system to silence the music, managing to cut it off just as a man dressed all in black, including gloves and a ski mask, entered through the open arch. Alarmed, she snatched the fifteen-pound sledge from the bench and held it high.

“Ah, my beautiful Brigit. Don’t be afraid,” he said, smiling. His voice raised gooseflesh on her skin. She had only heard it once in a voicemail, but she would never forget it: the killer. Sean had assured her he was dead, but here he was, in her shop.

“Brigit, my goddess. I only want to talk to you, to worship you. You’re the only one who can understand me.”

“Get out,” she hissed. “I don’t care what you want.” If not for the fifteen-pound sledge, her hands would be shaking. Gritting her teeth, she stood her ground.

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