Blood Loss Book 1

Character introduction: Stacy and Bruce Neal

 "Hi Dad," Stacy Neal whispered, standing on the porch of her childhood home. She readjusted her skirt and practiced it one more time. "Hi Dad," she said, a little louder. She looked at herself in the semi-reflection of the glass window in the door and saw her hair was showing the full extent of her trip from New York to Oakland.

The flight was long and filled with turbulence. Just like her life right now. With the way it was crashing down around her.

"Why did I wear this stupid skirt," she mumbled, frantically running her hands down its length as it fell slightly below her knees. It was classy, which was probably why she chose it. Maybe it was because this thing, this blue monstrosity, was the top thing in her dresser when she was packing and just put it on.

She regretted whatever influenced her decision now. Her father would immediately notice the wrinkles.

He'd never let Stacy live them down.

Good, she thought and stopped, giving up on trying to erase her seven hours on an airplane, sitting in the cramped economy class, stuck between a fat, old curmudgeon who halfway through fell asleep on her shoulder after complaining about his ex-wife for two hours and a middle-aged soccer mom who thought the world revolved around her and her precious little family.

That woman's giddiness, in light of why Stacy was on that plane, boiled her blood more than the old fool drooling on her as he snoozed.

She looked up at the brown door blocking her entry to her childhood home and thought back to what it meant to her growing up. The thing always seemed giant-sized, beyond the normal needs of a human. And, in a way, it was.

It was roughly three times the width of a normal door, something her father thought was needed. She never understood his desire, but maybe the door for him was a lot like some guys and the belt buckles.

Or their hot rods.

She'd always enjoyed her childhood, playing tag with her friends on the front lawn or with her dolls on the back patio. She dreaded that door opening when she was having so much fun. It always meant her play time was finished for the night and it was time to study or get ready for bed.

As a child, she was active, constantly moving. But what she wasn't was strong. She could barely budge the door growing up. And by the time she was old enough, her mother and father had already divorced. Dad kept the door, and the house built around it.

Mom? Well, mom got Stacy. And a new boyfriend. It was exactly the way it needed to be. Stacy's father wasn't a good person.

Yet, here she was, standing at the gateway, staring at the massive barrier and wondering what would happen when – or if – she knocked.

Hesitating again, she placed her knuckles against the foreboding door, then dropped it again down to her side.

Stacy sighed one more time and tried to steel herself to make her presence known. At first, she barely tapped the door. She laughed at herself, though and actually banged on it hard the second time.

Maybe that was a little too hard. I might've scared him.

But no one answered.

She knew he was home. His car was sitting in the driveway. That refinished 1967 Ford Mustang was, besides this obnoxious door, the love of his life. There was no way he was going to part with that thing.

At one point in her life, Stacy actually wondered how her father could love that car more than he loved her. But now, she being twenty-seven, it didn't matter.

She banged again, this time with an open palm. Three vibrating smacks, the last of which actually vibrated her arm along with the door it was so enthusiastic.