Please note that this was done without a beta reader. I just wanted people to get a feel for the storyline and if they'd be interested. Then after, I'll find someone to edit for me who would enjoy helping me with the story! Oh and I might change the title too. Thanks for understanding (:
Disclaimer: I'm only borrowing a few of the characters from the great Janet Evanovich, I created some along the way as well. The borrowed characters might seem slightly out of character to the original; but that's only because their now older, but overall I tried to stay true to the character as if this were to actually happen...
Eye of the Beholder
A tale of Batman and Wonder Woman's offspring
I know this is going to sound corny and completely cliché', but….I see dead people.
No I'm not one of those really weird gothic chicks, who wear all black and are obsessed with watching The Sixth Sense. In fact I hate that movie, and if you want to talk cliché, well theses a good example. I guess to understand were I'm coming from you'd have to go to the beginning.
You see I was destined to be part of an 'abnormal' family. My dad having been this mysterious mercenary, and my mother being the famous Trenton Bombshell Bounty Hunter. They fell in love and of course were too stubborn to act on it. Eventually, after many apprehensions, kidnappings, stalkers, and B&E's later—they finally pulled their heads out of their asses and got together. As you can observe, my cards were already played out for me and my wacky family.
So here I am now, 16-years-old with two older obnoxious brothers, along with a handful of ex-special forces soldiers as uncles (with really strange nicknames).
Don't get me wrong now, I love these people to death, but they all can be a little over-bearing and I can only handle so much testosterone at once.
These are the times when my mother and I bond the most. She is as lively as ever, but she can even get a little burned out from all the ruckus. One way we bond is in our taste of music. We both like our alternative rock, and every now and then we like to bump up the bass in one of our many cars, and cruise. We'll drive around for hours and get lost in the music.
Sometimes it's nice having a mother like her; she's easy to talk to and she has dad wrapped around her finger. That comes in handy when I miss curfew or get caught skipping (not that I do that anymore or anything…), she usually backs me up which leaves me stuck with her wrath instead (which isn't anything compared to dads).
My name is Gianna Ella-Marie Manoso. I come from a Cuban-Italian-Hungarian family, and we couldn't be prouder. I'm told I get my gift of seeing dead people from my Cuban great-grandma Rosa, and an intermixing of my Hungarian Gypsy heritage. Both my parents seem to have some what of a sixth sense as well (or as my mother calls it aSpidey-sense). They both know when the other is in the room and have a really good keen grasp on human nature.
My family runs and co-owns Rangeman Security, which has evolved into more then just security and skip-tracing these days. Now that my brothers are 'legal'—meaning they can carry a gun—we now have more family involvement which has really broadened our work load and specialty. Dad is still the security expert and his men do most of the field work.
Mom and I usually are the ones doing stakeouts and people searches. Rangeman is not limited to what we partake in; clients pay for a service and as long as it's legal (mostly), we'll do it.
My brothers and I were familiar with a gun before we even reached kindergarten. We also know three forms of self-defense, all of which my mother wasn't pleased with. All of us children have what you could call the 'ghetto fabulous' look due to our street credibility from our father, along with our slightly off set Cuban complexion. You could declare us as wealthy, but even with all the luxury and such; we try to live a modest lifestyle.
My family and I all have an equal sense of value and worth. We all are made up of the same moral code and live up to its standards.
My oldest brother; Carlos (named after my dad), is almost an exact replica of our father. A set of bulging biceps, the oodles of washboard abs, and the lady-killer mocha latte eyes. The only set back is the dark head of curls he inherited from our mother. Carlos's personality is also similar to our fathers. He's reserved, street savvy, and very athletic.
My other brother Carson is a mix of both parents. He has the profound chocolate brown eyes, but his form is more limber then Carlos's. He is what you call the charmer. He has a witty comeback for everything, and he can talk himself out of any detention. He keeps his dark hair straight like our fathers and dresses more on the edgy side; as if he were ready to rock out at a rock concert. This is a trait we both share—a love of rock—but it can be slightly annoying when I find him raiding my closet (and he's not gay…not even remotely). Who needs an annoying sister when you have him?
Then there's the youngest of all three kids… me. I guess you could say I have the unique looks of the bunch; wide crystal-blue eyes with brunette curly brown hair. I have my father's thick eyelashes and facial structure with my mother's poutylips and her button nose. To say the least, I certainly give multicultural a new meaning.
I was currently lying in bed, awakened from my nightmare. It left me feeling locked in my own body with no way out. I kept seeing their faces and they would not let me escape them. They captivate me. I felt haunted by their emptiness and need for justice. Their needs became my need, yet I had no way to seek them their fulfillment.
Almost everyday since I can remember, my day starts off this way. You would think over time I'd become accustom to this, but in reality it just seems to build on; leaving me with an unsettling futility.
I threw the covers back and headed over to my bathroom which was connected to my bedroom. My shakes begin to settle and I am able to gain better control of my movements. I reached the sink and splashed some water on my face and looked up at myself in the mirror.
Why do they come to me? What is it about me that they feel they can confide in? There is nothing special about me, and I certainly didn't ask for this. Tonight though the dream was different. This last one was unlike the previous ones.
I look over to my clock on the nightstand.
4:30 am
Oh joy…I've made it passed 3:00 am, my usual disturbance time. I've grown accustom to going to bed so early with all my early-bird wake-up calls. Typically I'll try to fall back asleep, but it's usually a lost cause.
Today I think I'll just get a jump start on my day. It's Friday and that means tomorrow is the weekend! I live for the weekends.
I creep across the hall to keep from waking the family. I notice dad's office light is on and so I walk over to it.
I push the door open to find dad typing away on his lap top. He looks up to see me standing in the doorway.
"Buenos dias querida…I see you made it past 3 today" he pointed out.
I let out a sigh and walk over to his desk and plop down in the adjoining chair. Mornings usually start off this way. Dad is usually catching up on paper work or preparing for his morning workout, and I usually join him. Today I wasn't in the mood for either. This last dream really disturbed me because it didn't involve the usual guilt it pulled from me. Today I felt this anticipation that followed, and I didn't know what the message was.
Dad stopped with his typing and closed the lap top.
"Another dream?" he asked. I nod my head. "You want to talk about it?"
I take a deep inhale of air, and closed my eyes, concentrating on the dream.
"This one was different dad" I began. I opened my eyes to find him focused on me. His face was blank, which guarded his thoughts. This pisses my mother off, and makes us kids nervous when we don't know what he's contemplating.
My voice had a slight quiver to it, which I assumed to be part of the side effect of my nightmare.
"This one I dreamt about wasn't dealing with the deceased. It was like I…I was reliving someone else's experience. I felt this overwhelming need to do something. Like this anticipating need of fulfillment" I said, trying to explain to the best to my ability.
Dad's eyebrows were drawn together in thought; his arms folded against his broad chest while leaning back in his seat. The lines by his eyes were defined with age, but overall he didn't look a day over forty.
"Hmmm….you sure it's not just your anxiety over finals next week? This doesn't fall under the usual itinerary" he said.
Itinerary? Dad…he's such a man of structure. I thought, while rolling my eyes. I was about to speak when mom peeped in through the door way.
"You coming back to bed" she asked dad, unaware I was in the room. She was wearing nothing but a sheet and had the look of recently-been-satisfied.
I gave an inward shiver. I admire that my parents are so deeply in love, but the idea of them doing the deed made me feel nauseated.
Noticing my presence, mom hid herself behind the door; blush creeping up her checks.
"Oh, Gianna!—I didn't see you there" she exclaimed bashfully. My face must have had a look of horror because dad let out a small amused chuckle.
"I'll meet you there babe, go back to bed" dad replied, nodding off to mom. Mom gave a two finger wave and turned back towards their bedroom.
I cleared my throat hoping to create a distraction. Dad was still smiling off into space and I was almost tempted to just send him off to join mom. But I really needed to vent.
"So…" I trailed off trying to get him back on track. He looked back over at me and his face became serious again.
"Do you need to go visit Abuela Rosa?" he asked.
Grandma Rosa is who I generally talk to when I have these sorts of problems. Thing is, she'll bombarded me with the same spiel on how this is my job to take on and it was a 'gift' that I was destined to use. I can only handle so much of her lecture.
No, I was in need of some comfort and the best place to seek that is at Grandma Plum's house.
Grandma Plum is my version of Betty Crocker. She can whip up any dish that will have your taste buds fulfilled. She always has that spoon full of sugar that drives away any discomfort I have. Baking is that medicine that always cures and Grandma Plum delivers.
"You know what, I think I'll just stop by Grandma Plums this afternoon," I told dad. He gave me a slight raise of the eyebrow in question before responding.
"It's your funeral" he answered bemused, shaking his head in disbelief.
He just doesn't understand…