Sugar rush double decept.., p.1
Sugar Rush: Double Deception (Book 1), page 1
DOUBLE DECEPTION
SUGAR RUSH
BY
CHARLES ELLIOT
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Preface
Whilst it is not necessary to read Van Doren, the prequel to the Double Deception series, before enjoying Sugar Rush it is highly recommended.
The prequel adds additional context to the series which will enhance your reading experience.
To read the prequel for free click HERE!
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 1
E
ven though the streetlights outside were bright and stung his watering eyes, they were nothing compared to the intrusive fluorescents inside the club. Cory Van Doren watched as the beams cast down from their bulbs swayed and shifted in front of his vision. He was vaguely aware that he still had a drink in his hand and that the night air was cold. Had he brought a jacket with him when he left the apartment? If he had, he couldn’t remember anymore, and it didn’t matter by then. None of it did, at the end of the day.
Cory’s foot missed the curb, and he staggered out into the street, regaining his balance just in time before he fell face-first onto the road. In his battle to stay upright, he had somehow managed to spill most of the contents of the glass he was holding down his shirt. In the ominous glow of the streetlight above him, the stains looked like blood.
Still standing in the middle of the road, Cory lifted the glass he was holding to the light, squinted one eye, and studied what liquid was left in it.
The drink he didn’t remember buying had been almost neon yellow inside the club, but by the stark lights of the street, he could see that it was clear. Cory took a sniff, creased his brow, and then tipped the glass to his lips. Whatever it was, it was strong, and that was good. Cory had never been a big drinker, but when he had gotten the itch that Saturday afternoon, he had decided to scratch it, and scratch it hard.
As he stood swaying in the middle of the street, he took in his surroundings properly for the first time. Across the way, the entrance to the Sugar Rush nightclub loomed wide and welcoming, but only to those willing to pay, of course. Two burly bouncers dressed all in black stood at either side of the door, their meaty arms folded over their chests.
To their left, he could just about make out a bunch of teens surrounding what looked like a hookah pipe. There were clouds of thick smoke rising from the center of their little circle, and Cory could hear their laughter traveling to him on the cool breeze.
Several stars peppered the pitch-black Portland sky, and as Cory lifted his gaze toward it, his head swam, and he had to close his eyes. After a few deep breaths, he staggered onto the pavement, draining the last of his drink as he moved. That done, he tossed the glass against the shutters of some store or another—enjoying the satisfying smash as it shattered into a million pieces—slipped a battered pack of Marlboros from his chest pocket, and lit one up.
As the smoke filled his lungs, it seemed to clear his head, and he felt a little better. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he could taste vomit in his mouth. After a moment’s deliberation, he decided he didn’t care, and he took another hard pull on his smoke as he rested his elbow on the lip of a trash can.
Cory Van Doren was a handsome man to most and a brooding enigma to others. His blue eyes often looked troubled, and his stubbled jawline was firm and proud. Not that Cory ever felt either of those emotions inside, but when you lived a life of relative solitude, those things became obsolete.
His job at the Portland Police Department kept him more than busy, which was just fine by him. Cory had discovered ever since that night at Mount Hood seven years before that keeping busy also meant keeping his mind occupied, and that ensured that all of the thoughts he didn’t want to deal with remained firmly in the darker recesses of his subconscious. With this knowledge in mind, he had dived even deeper into his career, working and researching at a rate that many people who knew him considered obsessive.
Not that it did much good, Cory thought as he crunched the butt under his boot and slipped another smoke from the pack. Once it was lit, he pocketed his Zippo and ran a hand through his light brown hair, feeling the bristles of his no-nonsense crew cut against his fingertips.
Although he had no recollection of making his way to Sugar Rush—or even deciding to go there, for that matter—his time on the force had led to him having an almost sat-nav-like knowledge of Portland. Even with his head spinning and stomach lurching, he knew the club was on West Burnside Street, which was almost 14 miles from his place on Fairview.
Why the fuck had he traveled all that way for a drink? He didn’t have any car keys with him when he checked his pockets, so he either walked or got a cab. In fact, why had he gone drinking at all?
Cory had never been one for going on benders, which was strange, he knew, given the way he dealt with his mental health. But he supposed that he was entitled to one on a Saturday night if he so chose, right? He was a grown man after all, with nobody—
That’s right, Cory, his mind mocked. Nobody.
—to answer to. He was a free man, at least in body, and he was only doing what every young-blooded male his age did every weekend.
Just then, a young woman in a short skirt and pink tank top came bustling past the two bouncers across the street. Above her, the words SUGAR RUSH shone in all their candy-colored brilliance, and Cory suddenly felt like he recognized the girl. Her blonde hair was in slight disarray, and even from his vantage point across the street, he could see how drunk she was.
You’re one to talk, Cory, my boy, the mocking voice informed him again.
Cory let a broad, lazy smile crease his face. Normally it was that mocking voice that drove him to show up for work earlier than anyone else and leave after all of his colleagues had gone home to their families. It was what made him bury his face in forensic texts, old case files, and criminal profiles. But just then, it sounded desperate and, dare he say it, a little scared.
The drink had diluted the voice’s venom, and Cory found himself puffing his chest out as he smoked.
Cory watched as the young woman—he put her at 23, tops—looked up and down the street, clearly looking for someone. Her handbag was half-open, and he could see the handle of a hairbrush poking out. She wiped at her face with her wrist, scowled, and then her eyes fell on Cory.
“There you are, handsome!” she shouted, her face lighting up as she stepped blindly out into the street. A yellow and black cab had to jam on the brakes, and for a moment, even the hookah-smoking college kids looked up as the tires screeched to a halt. The girl either didn’t notice or didn’t care. She was still talking as she walked across the road toward him. “I couldn’t find you.”
Cory looked over his shoulder to see who she might be talking to and saw no one. When he turned back to the woman, her face was only inches from his. He could smell vomit on her breath, and her big, green eyes were wild. She wore a lot of makeup, which she didn’t need—Cory could see how pretty she was even through the bad lighting and his drunken state—but the way she was carrying herself made it all seem insignificant.
“Are you talking to me?” Cory asked, cocking a thumb at his broad chest.
“Of course I am, handsome,” she slurred.
“Why do you keep calling me…”
But then it hit him like a cold bucket of water in the face. Jesus, could it really have been only half an hour ago that he was kissing her in the club? The memories were already fragmented, spliced randomly by the alcohol, bu
“Handsome?” she chimed, answering a question he never finished. She leaned in and placed her hand on his chest, her huge, green eyes looking up into his. “Because you are. I’ve always had a thing for older men.”
“Listen, I’m sure you’re a lovely—”
“What the fuck is going on here?”
The voice came from behind them, and Cory turned just in time to see a well-built man reach out and grab the young girl by the arm. He yanked her forcefully away, and she stumbled sideways. Then, suddenly, he was in Cory’s face.
Even with the situation escalating around him, Cory had time to take the guy’s features in. He guessed it was a cop thing, and when everything escalated and got crazy for other people, it went the opposite way for men and women in law enforcement. It was an instinct, and even as everything heated up, Cory registered the guy’s tan, designer stubble, strong jaw, slightly too bushy eyebrows, and of course, the anger in his sharp, brown eyes. He looked like a fucked-up Abercrombie and Fitch poster.
“What are you doin’ with my girl?” the guy demanded, pushing his bottom jaw out and leaning in closer to Cory.
Years of police training had also taught Cory how to handle volatile situations, but he had never been good with people getting in his personal space, and Abercrombie’s face was literally inches from his.
“Step back a little, pal, and we can talk about it, okay?” Cory said, trying to remain calm despite the anger building inside.
“Pal?” the guy spat. “I ain’t your pal.”
The girl had regained some of her composure, and Cory watched her out of the corner of his eye as she raised two hands in what he supposed was an apology. Her boyfriend—Cory had to assume Abercrombie was her man—had his back to her, and Cory hoped that she wouldn’t try and explain herself. Any such attempts were only sure to add gasoline to the already blazing fire.
He could see her for who she really was—just a young girl who’d had too much to drink. What had he been thinking by hooking up with someone so young and innocent? Did he just attract pain and misery? He had grown accustomed to such sorrows in his own life, but it always seemed that whenever he opened the door, even a crack, he inflicted them on whoever was stupid enough to peek their head in.
Cory backed up a few steps, trying to give himself a moment to regain some composure. Although fighting the man seemed like a very tempting idea, he knew that engaging a civilian in a fistfight was never acceptable, even off-duty. But the thought wouldn’t leave him, and he felt that old, familiar anger simmering on the surface again.
Something moved to his right, and he flicked his eyes in that direction for a second.
Joshua was standing at the end of the street, and Cory nearly called out to his brother for a moment before catching himself. Joshua had been dead for seven years, and the man he saw 20 yards away was only his own reflection in a store window.
“Eric, please,” the girl pleaded from behind. “We were just talking.”
Abercrombie (or Eric) didn’t turn around or even acknowledge his girlfriend’s ridiculous claim. He only had eyes for Cory, and when he took a few more steps forward, mimicking the ones Cory had just taken back, the off-duty PPD detective knew that the encounter would only end one way.
With his decision made, Cory pulled his shoulders back and stood tall, all the years of athletics and training in his high school and college days still evident in his strong, hard body. The drink was tickling his ego, and a sudden urge—hell, a need—to unleash his fury on the cocky college kid threatened to overwhelm him.
“What the fuck are you smiling at?” Eric asked, his huge hand coming out and grabbing Cory by the collar.
Cory registered for the first time that, unlike every other person in proximity to Sugar Rush, this guy appeared to be completely sober. The observation was instantly proven when Eric’s free hand shot up from his side and caught Cory hard on the eye. The force of the punch spun him, and unlike 15 minutes before, when he had slipped off the curb and found his balance at the last moment, Cory stumbled forward and came down hard on the cold concrete.
Something small hit the ground beside him, and Cory felt warm blood trickle down the side of his face. At first, his limbs refused to move, and he just lay there on the sidewalk, letting the surprisingly refreshing concrete caress his body. He was vaguely aware that he could hear the man who’d struck him and the young woman he’d kissed arguing, but their voices were coming to him as if underwater.
He hit you, Cory, the mocking voice inside chimed. And you know what? You deserved it. You really fucking deserved it.
Cory shook his head and was idly aware of the tiny droplets of blood that spattered on the ground beside him, but the movement only made his head swim more, and he had to close his eyes against the nausea.
“He’s a goddamn cop!” someone—Cory thought it was Eric—snapped.
“How do you—” the girl answered, then stopped mid-sentence.
Cory opened his eyes long enough to see the big bastard who had slugged him pointing at something on the ground close by. Then the dizziness that had been toying with him wrapped itself around his whole body, and Cory felt the world slipping away. As his head drifted toward the concrete for the second time in a minute, he held onto consciousness long enough to see Eric take his girl roughly by the arm and move away down the street.
As Cory lay on the cold pavement, his body creased at an awkward angle and the blood drying in his wounded eye socket, his mind tried to cling to any one thought that wasn’t self-loathing. Of course, it didn’t have much luck, and he again found himself wondering why on Earth he had decided to go on a bender when it really wasn’t his thing. There was no denying he was entitled to do what he wanted in his free time—he was a 30-year-old man, for Christ's sake—but staggering around nightclubs and drooling all over young girls was never nice.
And there he was, lying in the street as the world continued to move around him. He was also aware that someone had stepped over him a moment ago and had not even offered to help him up. Then again, who wanted to get involved in a cop’s business, especially when they were clearly acting drunk and belligerent?
How had the man who’d hit him known he was a cop, anyway? Cory had heard him say it, and then he had pointed at something on the ground.
When Cory tried to sit up, that nausea hit him again, and he had to stop. The blood on the side of his face had dried, and it felt like someone had thrown a water balloon full of glue at his head. He brought a shaking hand up to inspect the wound on his temple and winced when his finger touched it.
There wasn’t much of a gash there, though, and that was something, although his eye was already starting to puff up. Cory knew from his boxing days—well, he still trained, but not nearly as much as he should—that cuts on the forehead and temple bled profusely. It was why wrestlers nicked themselves there with razor blades when they wanted excess blood for the baying crowd.
Cory didn’t know how much time had passed when two hands gripped his armpits and yanked him to his feet, but he was kind of annoyed when they did. He had gotten comfortable in his little crumpled heap on the ground and had been starting to see what drew the alcoholics, meth heads, and heroin addicts he saw on the street every day to their bottles, pipes, and needles. There was an almost maternal comfort in hiding away in substance, although the paternal shame of it all was probably not a fair trade, at least in Cory’s mind.
With his left eye pasted shut with dried blood and the swelling, Cory opened his other one, and then had to close it again as the screaming neon lights of Sugar Rush assaulted his cornea. There was movement behind him—from presumably whoever had helped him up—and then he felt something small and smooth being slapped into his hand.
Cory didn’t need to open his eyes to know it was his badge. He had slipped it onto his belt almost every day for the last decade, and he could have located every scuff and dent in the leather by touch. It also explained the noise he had heard as he’d hit the deck for the first time and how Abercrombie, AKA Eric, had realized that he was a cop.
