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Sidetracked: If Yesterday Steals Tomorrow

By Valerie Banfield

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Excerpt, Chapter 1.
Samantha Hill was not a keen joystick operator, even without the pressure. As her heart thudded and her lungs fought for enough space to take in air, a ribbon of sweat trickled down her neck. Her damp palms did little to improve her handling of the small device, and when the remote video feed transmitted by the drone went blank, she winced, dropped the controls to the ground, and considered stomping the equipment with her new leather boots—Nashville style, just like all the new clothes she purchased for her clandestine operation. If she didn’t get a gig out of this effort—nope, failure was not an option. Couldn’t be.

Sammi ran her hand through her short mop of straight black hair, pinched the bridge of her nose, and closed her eyes. Now what? Yeah, she’d stalked him for six days now, slinking after the man every time he ventured beyond the long drive that led from his residential hideout, memorizing his morning coffee run routine, checking the arrival times of visitors as they waited at the gate for admission to the property. Nothing she’d done so far could be construed as illegal, but climbing over the wall—as if she had the strength and agility needed to hoist herself up and over the eight-foot barrier—took her actions into the criminal realm.

She blew out an exasperated huff as she bent over and grabbed the control mechanism. Before she could stand back up, the sound of determined feet padding the pavement met her hearing at the same time the gate slammed shut. When two huge paws skidded to a stop mere inches from the toes of her boots, she froze. She didn’t need to look up to know that the canine had an enormous head and lethal fangs.
I
n her stooped position, the dog’s rank breath puffed against her forehead and ruffled the sagging neckline on her blouse enough to warn of unintended exposure. While she fought for some means to escape the situation, the angry froth dispensed along with the dog’s warning growl pooled at her feet. Never mind the immodesty, the dog had to smell fear; he likely hungered for blood.

“Samson, sit.”

The voice, like the dog’s snarls, delivered heavy doses of anger and agitation. His command of the beast left little question as to who might be in charge. Sammi swallowed hard. She could play submissive. No problem.

“Get up,” the man barked.

Her fingers trembled as she followed the command intended for an intruder. She pulled the control box to her chest. If she dropped the thing, the massive German shepherd might react before his owner could tell him to sit again.

Sammi wasn’t particularly fond of dogs, wasn’t very good with them. Was she supposed to look the four-legged warrior in the eye or avoid visual contact altogether? Maybe that’s what she was supposed to do if she encountered a grizzly? Regardless, all she seemed capable of doing was withering in place. She decided to keep her eyes closed.

“Look at me.”

Well, so much for her first choice. She lifted her gaze from the pavement, tussled with the dog’s stare long enough to know she wasn’t meant to linger there, and raised her face until a pair of pale green eyes bore into her fearful brown orbs. Her left eye twitched.

He wasn’t a kid any longer—not that she knew him back then. Nate Fowler, now a forty-two-year-old nobody, hit his zenith when she was in middle school, when the admiration and reputation of any Christian rock star were beyond the realm—no, the galaxy—of things that mattered to her. He rode his popularity and maintained his star status until he turned his back on his fans and walked away three years ago.

Sammi discovered Nate and his music after she met and fell in love with Eric. Eric, the man who led her to a relationship with Christ, who introduced her to Christian worship music, who tumbled out of her life as fast as he arrived. She was as ill prepared for Eric’s exit as she was capable of fixing her eyes on Nate’s livid face. The man standing before her didn’t remotely resemble the worship leader whose music was capable of carrying her to spiritual depths.
Nate walked toward her, fisting one hand and waving her mangled drone in his other hand. “You lose something?”

“Uh.” When she lifted her foot to take a step back, the dog growled. Staying put seemed a good alternative.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t call the police.” He stood with his feet apart, the stance of a ready wrestler. The crows feet edging his eyes enhanced their angry sheen, and although countless smiles may have etched the thin lines on either side of his mouth, their rigid curve displayed the man’s displeasure.

“Uh,” she stammered as she lifted her shoulders and raised her brows in high, hopeful arcs. “I’m harmless?”
Wrong answer. He flung the drone at her, and when it bounced at her feet, she glimpsed deep teeth marks on the mangled rotors. The dog recoiled at the disturbance and scrambled to a standing position.

“Samson, sit.”

If her heart weren’t in her throat, she’d try to thank the musician. She pulled in tiny gasps of air as tremors toyed with her nervous system. First, he scowled at her lame reaction, and then his face took on a perplexed expression.
“You work for some tabloid?”

Sammi managed to shake her head.

“A stalking fan?”

Hmm, how to answer. Stalking? Yes. Still a fan? Up until this altercation, yes. But not the reason for her presence.

“I, uh, wanted your story.”

“So, you are with a tabloid.”

“No, I’m not.”

Nate threw her an impatient glare and when he lifted both hands, as if in surrender, the movement brought Samson to his feet again.

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