Ocean Kills:Book One of Ocean Breeze(2)

By: Jade Hart

“You're a working girl. We have every reason to arrest you.”

I sighed, slouching into the cracked vinyl seat. Relief flooded me. If this was just a routine grab-and-administer-friendly-sex-education mission, that was fine by me. I might even get a free dinner out of it. My stomach rumbled in agreement. Food would be good. Food was hard to get when you had no cash. Too long this time, Ocean. You need to suck up your pride and go back.

The cop mistook my relief for annoyance. He turned in his seat, pointing a finger in my face. “You listen here, girl, we're only looking out for you. Don't pull that attitude.”

I slipped into slutty prossie, an act I'd perfected, but never played in real life. It was all an act—my entire existence. I didn't know the real me anymore. Batting my eyelashes, I pouted. “Attitude? I don't have an attitude. But if you let me go, I'll make it worth your while.” I licked my lips suggestively. Ugh, this was gross. As if I would stoop to sleeping with strangers.

His face turned beetroot red and he spluttered. Seriously, had he never been propositioned by a working girl? Highly unlikely, he was a cop working in prostitute alley, after all.

The officer driving muttered, “You keep that trap shut, missy, if you know what's good for you.”

I took his advice. We travelled the short distance to the cop station in uneasy silence. When we arrived, my door opened, and my elbow was grabbed in an awkward tug to help me out. It didn't help, just hurt; my elbow screamed in protest, and my shoulder almost popped out of alignment. “Hands off. I know how to exit a freakin’ car.”

The officer huffed, but let go. Unobstructed, I followed my captors into the building and waited to be processed.

The station was tired: faded paint, chipped flooring, florescent lighting that punched you in the eye, and a bunch of deadbeats asleep in orange plastic chairs. Yep. Same as last time.

A grey haired, pinch-lipped lady glared at me over her spectacles. Could this get any more cliché? First, the fat doughnut-loving cop, now, the bird-like receptionist and her half-moon glasses. I rolled my eyes. The sooner this was over, the sooner I could forget.


Male hands fumbled on my lower back and wrists, unlocking my handcuffs. When they popped free, I rubbed my skin, glaring pointedly at Mr. Fat Policeman.

“Ocean Breeze.”

The woman cocked her head. “No jokes, young lady. Name.”

“I'm not joking. Ocean Breeze.” I hated this. This happened every single freakin’ time. No one believed that my mother would name me after toilet air-freshener.

“Hold please.” The lady tap-tapped on her keyboard. A tense moment later, she nodded at the officer behind me. “We have her records. Take her into interrogation room four, Officer Wade.”

I sighed. I could kiss five hours of my life goodbye once I stepped into that room. This never went easy. Unless I left, of course. Hmm, there was an idea. Did I have enough calories to leave? Could I be bothered to sit through the pathetic glances, the snide remarks, the pity looks?

As I trudged after Wade, I tensed my stomach muscles. Almost instantly, a headache formed. Yep, I was strong enough to leave, but how far I’d get I didn't know. I needed food. I’d see how much I could take, and if they hadn't booked me by the time the sun rose, I was outta here. Hopefully.

The metal door clanged shut behind me and I plonked onto a very uncomfortable plastic chair. The viewing window showed my tacky, heavily mascaraed fake eyelashes; my ebony eyes were pits of darkness. I missed the blue. My eyes started morphing from sapphire to black when the scorch marks began in my twenty-first year.

And of course I had to think about that now. I hissed between my teeth as a lacerating burn erupted on the upper part of my spine. I should've expected it. I killed. A toll must be paid, but this mark was later than the rest, I was normally taxed the moment I took a life, not half an hour later.

I sat frozen as the branding heat spread through me, delving deeper into my soul. I gasped as ice and gravel replaced my warmth and will to do right. Another piece taken. Another fragment of soul sucked into oblivion. What was I becoming?

I jumped as Officer Wade appeared, spreading my file open on the table. His jowls and belly were suitable for a sofa, not a police station.

And just like that, all my nightmares reared their ugly heads. My heart refused to beat; my skin turned corpse cold. No matter how hard I became, or how much I lied to myself that I was a ruthless murderess, I could never escape the terror.

The scorn and annoyance lining Officer Wade's face evaporated, leaving only pity as he studied the photograph of a blood-soaked eight-year-old girl.

Go on. Tell me how I was statistically meant to be a screw up. How no one could survive something like that and be normal. I sure wasn't normal.

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