Surrender 01 - Surrender

bottom of the stair-well. Monica stopped on the steps, dropped to her knees, and began to sob. She’d had enough, and there was nothing that was going to hold it back, anymore.
    “There-there, Dear, things are gonna work out,” Mr. Sherman said compassionately as he seemingly out of nowhere appeared by her side, bent down and began picking up Monica’s items.
    “This has to be the worst day of my life,” Monica cried, wiping the tears from her reddened eyes with her dirty apron.
    As Mr. Sherman handed Monica her purse and apartment keys, he asked, “How can such a nice young lady have so much turmoil in her life? Don’t just give up and plop down in this dingy stairwell. Tell me what’s wrong and I can almost guarantee you it isn’t all that bad.”
    Monica sniffled, then blowing her nose on her apron said, “I’m losing my apartment; my boss thinks I’m a horrible employee, and it seems as if everyone I meet hates me, especially overly attractive pilots.” Mr. Sherman reassuringly patted Monica on the back.
    “Dear, sometimes everything has to go wrong before it can turn around and start going right. It will work out for the best sooner than you think. As clichéd as that may sound, it’s true and all you have to do is pick yourself up. You can even use my cane,” Mr. Sherman reassuringly said in his most gentle voice, reserved only for his dog, Sophie, a Bichon Frise–West Highland Terrier mix.
    Monica looked up at her elderly neighbor and realized he was right. He reminded her so much of her own grandpa who’d passed away not too long ago. Still wiping the tears from her flushed face, she thanked him before picking up the last items from her purse. “There’s always tomorrow, I suppose. I’m going to miss you, Mr. Sherman. You have always been so nice to me.”
    “Don’t worry about tomorrow darling, things are going to pan out for you, just you wait. Now, go on inside, have a nice cup of hot tea and get some needed rest.”
    After hugging Mr. Sherman good-night, Monica walked into her apartment and closed the door, latching the chain behind her.

    ***

    Reassured Monica had made it safely into her apartment; Mr. Sherman smiled while recalling his true-love. He shook his head and slowly walked down the hall to his own apartment. Upon entering the dimly lit space, he made his way through the small living room, carefully taking a seat in his lounge chair, a chair that could’ve been taken straight out of an episode of I Love Lucy or Leave It To Beaver .
    Catching his breath and setting his cane aside, Mr. Sherman picked up the receiver of his old olive green rotary phone and began to methodically dial a number. “Hello, Audrey, it’s Sherm. Yes, everything’s fine. Hey, do you remember that conversation we were having the other day? The one about the boys? I think I found the perfect one for Robby.”

    Below the Radar is available for purchase at all major retailers.

Bluegrass Undercover
    By Kathleen Brooks

    Prologue

    He wiped his sweaty hands on his mesh shorts and took a deep breath to calm himself. If he got caught, it would end his high school football career, cost him a chance at a college scholarship, and his parents would be pissed. Those factors were outweighed by the fact that he was a full two tenths of a second slower in the 40 than his backup, and that meant if he didn’t pick it up, he’d be riding the bench this season.
    The glass doors were looming in front of him as he approached the dealer. His hands left sweaty imprints as he pushed the doors open and tried to casually walk inside. His heart pounded as if it were up to him to make the last-second play to win the big game. He smiled to those he knew, which, thanks to being such a small town, was practically everyone. Did they all know what he was about to do?
    The locker room was just ahead of him now. This was it. He put his hand in his pocket and felt for the cash he’d stolen out of his mom’s and dad’s wallets over the last couple of weeks. He’d had to empty his piggy bank and save up his allowances for a month, but if this worked, it would be worth it. He’d be faster, stronger, and maybe even Mr. Football in Kentucky. A scholarship to a Division I school would make everything perfect. Even his parents couldn’t get mad about taking a couple hundred from them if he was going to be on ESPN every Saturday.
    “Hey, man.”
    “What’s up?”
    “You got the five hundred?”
    “Yup.”
    He pulled out the