Patrick Kelly's Blog, page 3

The first character I killed was Amanda Sorenson

Amanda was innocent, and I felt bad about it, but in the interest of the story she had to go. It happened at the Driskill Hotel in Austin. Joe Robbins saw the whole thing. Read his eyewitness account here.

From the mind of Joe Robbins:

Rose and I decided to tour Sixth Street before calling the limo to take us home. Her words had grown slurred; fresh air would revive her. As we crossed the tiled lobby, she walked ahead, exaggerating her sway for my benefit.

Employees and their dates sat at small tables in the lobby, enjoying coffee and quiet conversation.

We passed through the front door, and the clip-clop of a horse-drawn carriage drew near. Stepping down the few stairs, we turned left. In the middle of the brick sidewalk, outside the entrance to the hotel, was an azure pump with a three-inch heel lying on its side.

“Hey,” Rose said. “Someone’s lost her shoe. It’s like Cinderella.” She turned toward the carriage. “Where is she?”

Then the shoe’s twin dropped on the sidewalk, almost hitting Rose. Was someone up there throwing clothes over the side? Rose lifted her gaze and drew a quick breath. Fear wiped the smile from her face.

I hurried, my pulse quickening.

Above the sidewalk in front of the Driskill was the large balcony that extended out from the ballroom-level floor. Above that, a second balcony extended from a master suite on the fourth floor. Standing on the concrete rail of that higher balcony, in her azure dress and bare feet, was Amanda Sorenson.

I stared at her without blinking. I raised my hands, palms open, every muscle in my body tense.

She stared straight ahead and took the ballerina’s first position, her arms circled in front. She did a plié and then lifted her right leg straight up in a stretch; her raised hand touched the heel of her foot. She had replaced the strand of pearls around her neck with a thick, dark choker.

My heart pounded at my ears.

“Amanda!” I shouted, stepping closer. “Get back from there. It’s dangerous.”

She must be drunk, but no—she didn’t appear drunk; her movements were sure, but at the same time dreamlike.

The carriage behind us stopped, and concerned voices talked in whispers. Passersby pointed. For the first time, Amanda noticed that others were nearby. She considered Rose and me, and smiled.

“Step back!” I shouted, my throat dry, my voice hoarse. “Amanda! Step back.”

But she didn’t. She smiled at me again, gave the slightest wave, and jumped. As she began to fall her dress floated around her thighs.

I lunged forward with arms outstretched, as if to catch a child.

A sickening snap sounded, like a flag blowing in a stiff breeze, only lower and dull. The woman in the carriage screamed. Amanda hung between the two balconies; what I thought was a choker around her neck was actually a rope. An acid feeling rushed through me. The pounding in my ears moved to my brain and pressed against my skull. The sound I had heard was the rope snapping taut.

She made a grim spectacle in the light from a nearby lamp. Her feet quivered a few seconds, and then stilled. Her pretty white arms hung at her sides. Her blond hair covered her face. Inanely, I wondered if her toenails were painted the same azure color as her dress and shoes and fingernails.

More screams came from the street, and people ran toward us. Rose was on her knees, her face buried in her hands, rocking. I reached for her arm, pulled her up and into the lobby, and sat her down in a chair.

“Stay here,” I said.

Her face was a blank. “What?”

I leaned in close. “Stay here!”

She blinked and nodded.

I grabbed the concierge, and we ran to the elevator. As the doors were closing, Gwen Raleigh rushed in.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “I heard screams.”

“Amanda Sorenson hanged herself.” My voice sounded shaky.

“What? No! What are you talking about?”

“We’ve got to do something… maybe… maybe we can do something.”

The elevator doors opened, and we sprinted down the hall to find the suite unlocked. The company had rented it as a control center for the party organizers. At the back of the room, the doors to the balcony were open. Wispy curtains on the left swayed in the breeze. A thick rope held the curtains on the right in place.

Outside on the balcony, the concierge and I hauled on the rope together. After three pulls I reached over the rail, wound my arms behind Amanda’s back and under her armpits.

People watched from the street below. My cheek brushed against her ear; her hair was soft, like a child’s, her perfume subtle and flowery. A siren sounded nearby. With a heave we fell in a pile on the balcony. Amanda’s dress was above her waist, exposing a black thong and a rose tattoo on the outside of her hip. The red petals and green leaves were bright; they glistened like fresh paint, as though the tattoo had been a recent addition to her body.

I loosened the rope around her neck, and Gwen pulled Amanda’s dress down to cover her knees. Staring at her lifeless body, I blinked twice and took a deep breath.

We performed CPR for the seven minutes it took the EMS team to arrive and take over. They called the vehicle to get the defibrillator ready, and hauled Amanda away.

Gwen and I stared at each other.

“Oh my God,” said the concierge. “This is awful. This is just awful.”

“Why?” said Gwen, her face drawn and her eyes frantic. “Why would she do that?”

Stunned, I shook my head. I had no answers.

Excerpt from The Entrepreneurs (Joe Robbins Book One) Get the full novel on Amazon for 99 cents.

Amanda Sorenson’s suicide is the triggering event that set Joe Robbins on the journey that is The Entrepreneurs. Before that happened, Joe was a just a finance guy trying to get rich working for a software company. By the end of the novel, his life had changed forever.

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