Hope - Book 1 of the Bad Boy Vibes series

Prologue

Hope – Bad Boy Vibes

by

H. M. Irwing

Prologue

Anna Walters-Simmons wrinkled her nose in distaste as the strong scent of the freshly brewing storm mingled with the smell of damp, freshly tossed earth. The dreary skies matched the tears streaking down the porcelain perfection of her plump cheeks. The heavens, grey and heavy with rain-filled clouds, sent their rumble of disgust over the proceedings below.

Dressed in sombre black, a solemn crowd gathered around the glossy rectangular frame being lowered cautiously into the damp soil. To all intents and purposes, the assembled crowd appeared as morose as the event they were attending, but only God knew what they truly felt for the man lying within, in quiet repose, a stance entirely in contrast to his otherwise volatile nature when alive. The priest, used to such moods at these events, stood at the head sombrely reciting a prayer from the Bible. But then thunder rang out loud, booming across the grey skies, closely followed by a flash of highly artistic pyrotechnics. The listening mourners dropped their purposeful sombre masks then, and shifted impatiently on anxious feet, casting worried glances skywards as nature continued to threaten an outburst of a downpour.

Before long, the murmuring from the priest desisted, and the funeral was over. The crowd began to disperse.

"Anna, how are you doing?" The inquiry came from an elderly gentleman Anna didn't know. "I am sorry for your loss."

Anna pushed back the dark glasses on the bridge of her nose and surreptitiously sniffed before nodding her acceptance. She even managed a tight smile in return. She watched as the man moved on, this time to gather with the others about her mother. To a normal widow, such words of condolence offered no consolation over the loss suffered. With Jane Simmons, there was only indifference, even if she too teared helplessly behind the cover of dark glasses.

Neither Anna nor her mother, Jane, cried for the man who lay dead. Theirs were not the tears of sorrow for their loss. Indeed, the sudden demise of John Simmons was no loss to anyone.

No, theirs were the tears of frustration—for the man who lived still.

The dark glasses that covered most of Jane's face, a contrary accessory to present weather conditions, did more than hide those tear-reddened eyes. They concealed the brush of purple and lacklustre green that surrounded those tearing green eyes. Nothing was revealed to the curious and intrusive onlookers. None of what she was feeling or any of what she was suffering.

Jane Simmons, thin and frail on the outside to match what she truly was on the inside, bore some watching. And instinctively she knew that...and she also knew that she was being watched. Her head tilted subtly to the side in a quiet acknowledgment to Anna's silent scrutiny, secure in the knowledge that her daughter, at least, was always there to look out for her. With two husbands already six feet under, it was no small worrying matter.

But Anna herself was not free to care for her mother as she would have liked. Turning away with an anxious glance, Anna looked back to the dark casket that was being lowered into the ground.

Her sigh of relief left her lips in a soft puff of fogged breath. But that was only apt, for the chill in the air matched that of her heart.

"Sorry for the loss of your father."

Another well-wisher pressed in her unwanted attention and reached out to envelope Anna in a warm hug. But, as expected, the heat from her embrace refused to penetrate Anna's chilled bones.

A movement at the corner of her eyes drew her immediate attention. Jerking her head to her left, she caught sight of the man who set John Simmons en route to his final destination. His dark head bobbed along as he weaved his way through the dispersing crowd to come to a stop facing her, across the casket that was slowly being covered in soggy earth. His wry grin sent her heart thumping again in renewed fear and ever-rising panic.

"Your father was a great man," murmured the lady, releasing Anna from her grasp and no doubt moving on to her mother.

Anna shivered at the intense chill moving down her spine. There was only one person she feared more than the man already lying dead in the ground before her, and that was the man she was presently staring at. Half afraid, but unable to tear her gaze away from the quiet menace that shadowed Brian Simmons, Anna's green gaze didn't waver from where they rested, on the darkly knowing eyes of Brian Simmons.

The lady well-wisher had been wrong. They all had been. The man in the casket was not her father. He had never been her father in all the eight years he remained married to her mother.

John Simmons had only ever been a father to one person—his son and murderer, Brian Simmons.