Reflections

By Sara Vinduska

It wasn't the first time Lash Brogan had aimed a gun at another man and pulled the trigger. It wasn't the first time he'd watched a man fall to the ground bleeding. As an actor, he'd done just that countless times. But this time it was not a scene from one of his movies. This time it was for real.

When Lash Brogan, an Irish immigrant and one of America's most popular movie stars, is kidnapped and held hostage in the mountains of Colorado, it will take all of his strength and determination as well as help from a beautiful stranger to help him escape. Justine McBride is a reclusive physical therapist trying to escape the painful memories of her family's death. After helping him recover, she falls hard for Lash without considering the ramifications of such a public relationship. Narrowly escaping a second attempt on his life, wounded and shaken, Lash retreats to his ranch in Wyoming where he and Justine isolate themselves while the FBI searches for the men responsible. In his struggle to heal emotionally and physically, Lash becomes dependent on prescription painkillers. He turns away from those closest to him, including Justine, and plunges into the depths of addiction. Lash must find the strength within himself to turn his life around and become the man he is destined to be if he is to have a future with Justine and reclaim his place in Hollywood.

Reflections introduces you to a world where fate's not fair, but justice and true love are certain. Look for future stories that continue to follow the lives of Lash Brogan and his friends.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sara Vinduska
• Release date: Feb 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463231470

Sara Vinduska

Originally from Kansas,Sara Vinduska is a romantic suspense author and aspiring farmer in Wyoming. Her other passions include yoga, soap making, good red wine, and K-State football.

Book preview

REFLECTIONS

A Novel by

Sara Vinduska

Chapter 1

And the Oscar for best actor goes to . . . Lash Brogan.

Andy Taylor swallowed hard and looked around the crowded Kodak theatre. The seat reserved for Lash was empty. Where the hell are you, you son of a bitch? Standing up, he took a deep breath and headed for the stage.

After the applause died down, he took a moment to survey those gathered there, dressed in their tuxes and designer gowns, talking in hushed whispers. He also couldn't help but notice the presence of the extra security guards in the doorways, probably standard protocol when a celebrity went missing. He lowered the microphone at the podium and cleared his throat.

Thank you. I'm Andy Taylor, Lash's manager. I'm also his friend and I know how much winning this award means to him, so on his behalf, I accept this award and hope you will all join me in praying for his safe return. He reverently picked up the gold statuette and stepped back as the crowd got to its feet, thankful he'd somehow managed to keep his voice steady.

He gave a nod to the crowd and let the presenter lead him backstage. Dammit, Lash, what the hell have you gotten yourself into this time?

Consciousness returned to Lash Brogan in slow rolling waves, each one dragging him closer to the surface. The first thing he noticed was coldness. He was lying on his back on a damp concrete floor.

Pain kicked in, a vague ache that permeated his entire body. He took a deep breath, the air thick and musty. He forced his eyes open, but still saw only darkness. Rubbing his eyes, he pushed himself into a sitting position on the hard floor. He could make out the dim outline of a wall about three feet in front of him. He shook his head, trying to clear away the confusion. Where the hell was he?

He tried to think, but the dull ache spreading through his head made it difficult to concentrate. The last thing he remembered was walking out of his apartment in New York City. It had been a perfect afternoon, warm for late February, the sun gleaming off his black limo.

Everything after that was jumbled, shattered bits and pieces, pictures in his mind tumbling over each other. Had he been in some sort of car accident?

No, that wasn't right. He closed his eyes, desperate to make sense of the images. His bodyguard had been standing outside the limo, but the face, something had been wrong, the face wasn't quite right, then . . . hands pulling him inside the car . . . the sharp prick of a needle in his shoulder . . . yelling at them to stop the car . . . had to meet Andy for lunch at Spago . . . one o'clock . . . the limo barrelling down the interstate . . . dizzy, couldn't breathe . . . then nothing.

  It had to be a dream, the images couldn't be real. He opened his eyes and scrambled to his feet where he wavered, unsteady, found the wall behind him and got his balance. Couldn't be real.

He felt the cold solid wall under his hands.

It was real.

The confusion turned to fear. His stomach dropped. No, it wasn't possible. He felt his way around the small room, found nothing but a locked door, and pounded desperately against it. This wasn't happening, not to him. Any minute now, he'd wake up from this nightmare.

As the minutes ticked by, reality sank in and anger replaced the fear. Whoever did this would pay, he'd see to that. Suddenly weary, he sank back down to the floor and dropped his head into his hands. Whatever they'd given him was wearing off and he wanted to be ready when they decided to show their miserable faces.

Nicholas Sloan closed his eyes and let his body sink down into the soft leather couch as the euphoric rush started to take hold. Some time later he opened his eyes, sniffed, and wiped the remaining traces of white powder from his nose. His dark eyes burned with stone cold intensity as he stood up and stretched then looked down at his Rolex, smiling. It was done. He briefly thought of Brianna, pure and innocent Brianna. Then he thought of Brogan, wondered what the actor was thinking right about now. He laughed out loud, oh how sweet his revenge would be. He'd show them both what happened to people who betrayed him.

Nicholas Sloan was not a man you fucked with. He was ruthless, fearless, and always got his way. No matter what. He’d lived in the shadow of his father for far too long, but not anymore. This was his time, and nothing or no one would get in his way. He wouldn’t allow it.

Blackness. It surrounded him, he could feel it closing in. Lash opened his eyes but only inky blackness was in front of him. His entire body ached, his head still disoriented. He had no idea how long he’d been in the dark room.

He groaned and rolled over, stretching out his legs. Feeling returned to his limbs, painfully reminding him of how cold it was in the room. His sweater and coat were gone and he had on only his white T-shirt and khaki pants. The cold was numbing and he fought to stay awake, tried to make his mind work but all he wanted to do was sleep.

The door was jerked open and blinding light jarred him back to reality. He squinted, trying to see what was going on. Two hulking shadows made their way through the doorway towards him but he couldn’t make out who they were, everything was blurry. His eyes wouldn't focus.

Footsteps echoed loudly on the concrete floor as they came closer. Lash stood, riding an adrenaline wave, and came at them. You motherfuckers, he roared, pulling his fist back. For the first time in his life, his punches didn’t have the desired effect. Surprised and angry at how weak his body was, Lash found himself down on the floor again. The two goons moved towards him in unison.

Lash instinctively tried to scoot away but they were too fast and his reactions too slow. One of the men grabbed him by the hair and slammed his knee into Lash’s face while the other kicked him in the side. Sharp pain exploded from every nerve in his body.

They left him where he lay, once again in darkness on the hard cold floor, shivering and unable to move.

Lash awoke with a start. How long had he been out this time? It seemed like forever. Time had lost all meaning. It could have been hours, could have been days. Surely there was someone looking for him by now. The Academy Awards were coming up.

Son of a bitch, what day was it? Rubbing his aching jaw, he couldn't help but wonder how extensive the damage to his face was. He could taste blood, sharp and coppery, in his mouth. He spat it out.

He tried to move again and the intense pain cleared the fog in his head. His hair was sticky and matted with dried blood. Questions tumbled over each other in his mind. Who had done this and why? It had to be his money they were after. Why the hell else would someone kidnap him?

His entire body ached. No. This was no simple kidnapping. Someone wanted to hurt him. He tried to wrap his mind around the fact that someone, somewhere, hated him enough to do this to him. Now he just had to figure out a way to get out of this alive, find whomever it was, and make them pay.

As if in slow motion, the door opened again and shafts of light illuminated the man walking towards him.

You, Lash croaked as he sat up and slowly, painfully, got to his feet. Why are you doing this?

Oh I think you know the answer. With that, the man delivered a powerful kick to Lash’s right knee. Lash heard a sickening pop and then went down, rolling on the floor in agony.

That’s what you get for fucking my wife you son of a bitch. The man delivered another kick to Lash’s stomach and one to his head.

I didn’t touch your wife, was all Lash could manage to get out before he passed out again.

Lash regained consciousness slowly, not sure if he was dreaming or awake. The agonizing pain in his knee convinced him that he was, indeed, awake. He put his head in his hands and forced himself to take slow, deep breaths hoping to clear his mind.

When the pain subsided, he slowly got to his feet and limped back and forth across the floor of his prison. There had to be a way out of this. There had to be. But how, goddammit?

In desperation, he threw the weight of his body against the door. It didn't budge and the only damage he managed to inflict was to his already bruised shoulder. He dropped to the floor again.

Cold, hungry, and in pain; trapped in the pitch black, his mind had nothing to do but wander. Staring straight at the possibility of death had a way of forcing you to examine your life.

He thought of his parents back in Ireland and felt a pang of grief. Would he ever see them or his homeland again?

He found it somewhat ironic that when he thought of making it back home, the first place that came to mind wasn't his fancy New York City apartment, or his sprawling Wyoming ranch, but the tiny village of Navan in County Meath, Ireland. The place of his birth where he'd raised hell growing up, stretching the patience of his parents to the breaking point. The place he couldn't wait to leave.

He'd come a long way from there to where he was today and acting had been his ticket out. Success hadn’t happened overnight, though. He and his closest friend and manager Andy had spent many nights in their East Village, New York City apartment eating PB&J sandwiches, and freezing their asses off because they couldn’t afford to heat the place.

He’d tried not to let fame get to him when it did come, but it’s hard not to when you’re twenty-five years old with a $750,000 paycheck and a number one movie at the box office. He was older now, and liked to think he’d done some good things in his thirty-two years. He’d bought his parents a new house and he did provide entertainment for his fans. Sure, he still liked to party. He’d done his share of drinking and sleeping around and had at times been an ass to the people working for him. But dammit, that didn’t mean he was a bad person. And he sure as hell wasn’t ready to die. Not here, not like this.

It had been Nicholas Sloan he'd seen, he was sure of it. But it didn't make any sense. He'd never slept with Brianna. He'd wanted to. He'd tried. But how could Nicholas know that? Surely if Brianna had told Nicholas, she also would have told him she'd said no.

So why the hell was he here, locked up in this room? For wanting to sleep with another man's wife?

Maybe the man he'd seen had just looked like Nicholas Sloan.

No, Lash remembered what the man had said just before he kicked the shit out of him.

'That's what you get for fucking my wife.'

He also remembered the look of pure rage on the man's face. A cold shudder ran down his spine.

Chapter 2

FBI Special Agent Ward Calhoun took the fax his boss handed him, read it, and shook his head. This for real? he asked with a raised eyebrow.

Marty Schenkelberger, Special Agent in Charge of the Denver, CO field office, shrugged his wide shoulders. Who knows? Guy’s a big time movie star, probably off on a bender with some woman on an island somewhere. He took a breath, let it out slowly. Then again, could be real.

Why are we getting this? Calhoun asked.

Brogan’s agent in New York is raising holy hell, NYPD handed it off to the New York office. New York found out our missing movie star has a ranch in Wyoming, which falls under our territory. They want our Jackson Hole resident agency to check it out.

They’ll love that, Calhoun said. Only a handful of people worked in the Jackson Hole office and Calhoun was pretty sure the agent in charge there wasn’t going to like being sent on an errand like this for New York. Especially not one involving a movie star.

Schenkelberger smiled. That’s why I’m going to let you give them the good news.

Thanks, boss, Calhoun said with a heavy dose of sarcasm.

Pain. That was his world now. Darkness and pain. But pain meant he was still alive. Groaning, Lash sat up slowly. Every part of his body hurt, but he knew he had to move. He gulped the bottle of water that had been left for him, but his mouth was still dry, his stomach still hollow. He stretched out all his muscles, trying to work out some of the stiffness. Exhausted, he leaned back against the wall. A rat scurried across his feet.

He was still alive, but why? He knew now that there would be no ransom demand, no deal to be made for his safe return. His captor was not motivated by money, but revenge for something he thought Lash had done. There was no chance of reasoning his way out of this and he was in no shape to fight off his attackers. A cold feeling of hopelessness spread through his chest.

He shook his head. No! He would not give up hope. There had to be a way.

Never a religious man, Lash vowed then and there that if he got out of this alive he’d change his life, strive to be a better person, as he prayed desperately to a God he wasn’t sure existed.

The door scraped open and his head jerked up. It was the same two men. Lash had nicknamed them when he realized they were going to keep coming back. The big one was the Hulk and the smaller one was the Shadow. They approached, Hulk cracking his knuckles and grinning in anticipation of the pain he was about to inflict. Lash stood defiantly, his eyes blazing. You sons of bitches are enjoying this aren't you?

The Shadow smiled. Like an ice cold beer on a hot day.

Lash stepped closer, Well, get it over with then, but know that when I get out of here you're both dead.

The Hulk laughed, then punched Lash hard in the gut, knocking him to his knees. I've got something to make you a little more cooperative, he said, reaching behind his back.

Lash saw the glint of the hypodermic needle. No. He scrambled to his feet and came at them, but his body was too weak to fight them off. He found himself pushed up against the wall, the needle jabbed into his arm.

He slid down the wall as the door closed, breathing hard. His thoughts faded and his eyelids drooped. He leaned his head wearily against the wall, allowing the lethargy to take over. His body needed the rest anyway. He let go.

Lash groaned and rolled onto his side. He hadn't thought it possible for his head to hurt any worse than it had before.

Wrong.

Maybe he'd feel better if he sat up.

Wrong again.

Nausea lurched in his stomach. He leaned his head back against the wall and swallowed hard until it passed. There, that was better, not much worse than a hangover. And God knows he'd had plenty of those. He laughed, thinking perhaps he was going insane.

Reality and dreams merged into one, but always there was the blackness and the cold. Too weak to defend himself from the numerous beatings, he couldn’t even think straight anymore. Of course, the lingering effects of the drug continued to cloud his judgment.

Still, a part of his mind refused to accept the fact that he was going to die. Giving up wasn’t in his nature. Lash had never given up on anything in his life and wasn’t about to start now when his very life was at stake. He just had to wait for an opportunity to present itself and be ready when it did. He got shakily to his feet and cried out in pain as his right leg refused to support him. Groping in the darkness, he found nothing but the one bolted door and rough concrete walls, nothing he could use as a weapon.

By the dark dampness and lack of windows, he guessed he was in a basement. But where?

The door creaked open. The two goons again.

There was something different in their demeanor this time. Lash took a step back as the Hulk came towards him and pulled out a gun. He could see him smiling in the shadows as he aimed the gun at Lash's head. Pity we don't have time to play today. He motioned towards the open door with the gun. We've got a nice little hole dug outside for you.

Lash felt his heartbeat triple and adrenaline flood his bloodstream. This was it. They were going to kill him.

Move! the Hulk said, harsher this time.

Lash took a hesitant step forward. His leg buckled underneath him and he fell to the floor.

Don't make me drag your ass outside, the Hulk said, bending down close to Lash.

Without warning, Lash slammed his fist into the man's groin. Howling in pain, the Hulk released his hold on the gun and it skittered across the floor. Lash lunged for it, picked it up, and aimed at the Shadow, still standing by the open door, belatedly reaching for his own gun.

Lash pulled the trigger as he regained his feet. He turned back towards the Hulk, still doubled over on the floor. Slowly centering the gun on the man's head, Lash hesitated. What if I just wound him? Too much of a risk. He braced himself, and ignoring the pleading look in the man's eyes, pulled the trigger again.

Ears ringing from the gunshots, Lash stumbled past the bodies and through the door. One bare bulb illuminated a rickety staircase at the end of the hallway. He limped towards it.

Gun in hand, he cautiously made his way through the house, and encountering no one else, pushed open the front door. The sun reflected dizzyingly off the snow. He threw an arm across his eyes and fell to his knees, gasping for breath.

Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the bright light and he managed to get to his feet, trying to get his bearings. His eyes skimmed the surrounding wilderness. The only other building in sight was an ancient single car garage.

It was empty.

Tracks in the snow led into the trees. The road they