This is a pre-edited version of OCEAN KILLS, the first book in the OCEAN BREEZE series which will be released December 2012. Jade Hart can be contacted at jadehart888@gmail.com.
Chapter One: Ocean
My name is Ocean Breeze. Yep. Ocean freakin' Breeze. It was my mom's attempt at some posh-sounding name. She was inspired by—get this—a bottle of toilet air-freshener. My heart squeezed at the thought of a cookie-scented woman with hugs that held sunshine.
The sound of my Nikes pummelling the pavement chased away my thoughts. The slapping of rubber against asphalt was similar to the slap the last prostitute-abusing john gave me. Stinking bastard. No one raises a hand to Ocean Breeze without losing an appendage. Or more, as the case may be.
I swiped my hands on my vinyl, red miniskirt. It wasn't exactly an attractive outfit—Nikes with a miniskirt? But I've learned the hard way. Running in heels never worked. Ever. The sleazy men who paid for sex didn't care what was on my feet, only what was between them.
I jumped and jived through the crowd. It was two in the morning, and the streets of Kings Cross, Sydney, were a hive of activity. Drunken students hauled themselves from karaoke clubs. Rich business men back-slapped each other for the lap dance from the uni-student, who pocketed their tips to pay for her law degree. This place was full of clichés and smut.
And I loved it.
I could disappear here. I was a nobody. Even boasting a pair of ruby lips and a figure that could've graced the center fold of Playboy, I didn’t stand out. Beauty was coveted in the Cross, and plastic surgery was the salvation if nature didn’t do the work.
So why was I running?
I just killed a guy. That's why.
I bolted past the three-story sized Coca-Cola advertisement, blazing red and white, and disappeared into an alley full of meth-heads and crack whores. I leaped over comatose figures, sprinting toward the city centre. Keep running. Get far away.
The night was heavy with muggy heat, unusual for this time of year, and sweat made my miniskirt slide against my thighs.
Kings Cross embraced sin and naughtiness. The suburb encouraged unleashed pleasure and endless partying. It also encouraged rapists and murderers who lurked in the shadows. . . waiting.
A flash of blue and red lights.
Sirens.
Fuck! I pirouetted on my heel and charged down another alley, passing a gay club blasting Kylie Minogue. Ugh.
“You! Stop!”
Yeah, no chance of that, Fat Cop. I flipped him the bird, and kept running. He jumped back in his cruiser and gave chase. Lazy bastard. Too many kebabs and doughnuts for that slob. He wouldn't catch me. No one ever caught me.
I smiled. I loved the chase. I loved the kill. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. I didn’t enjoy murdering someone, but I did enjoy the knowledge that he’d never hurt another. My cut-throat actions saved other would-be victims. Plus, that john deserved it.
Memories overtook my vision. Heavy breath on my cheek, rancid smell as he slobbered on my neck. Then warm, oozing blood as my weapon of convenience—a long skinny oyster knife—buried deep in the man's groin. Ridding him of a vital piece of his anatomy and draining his body of crimson. One moment alive, the next—not. Then rushed practicality: Dispose of my surgical gloves. Wipe the corpse with antiseptic wipes. Remove the man's DNA, fingerprints, and blood from my body.
