GhosTV by Jordan Castillo Price
Summary:PsyCop #6
For the past dozen years, Victor Bayne has solved numerous murders by interrogating witnesses only he can see—dead witnesses. But when his best friend Lisa goes missing from the sunny California campus of PsyTrain, the last thing he wants to find there is her spirit.
Disappearing without a trace in a school full of psychics? That's some trick. But somehow both Lisa and her roommate have vanished into thin air. A group of fanatics called Five Faith has been sniffing around, and Lisa's email is compromised.
Time is running out, and with no ghosts to cross-examine, Vic can't afford to turn down any offers of help. An old enemy can provide an innovative way to track Vic's missing friend, and he enters into an uneasy alliance—even though its ultimate cost will ensnare him in a debt he may never manage to settle.
Original Review February 2024:
It's been too long since I read the first 5 entries in Jordan Castillo Price's PsyCop series, I've listened to those 5 over the course of time since first discovering this series but I had yet to go back to continue on with Vic and Jacob's journey. It was a case of "in the mood for Christmas holiday cheer" that halted my first reading and time just never seemed to be on my side since. I don't do resolutions but I do make a few goals every January and one of my goals for 2024 was a Reading Bucket List, returning to Price's PsyCop series was near the top so when I finished my last After Christmas Holiday Read I felt compelled to start the Bucket List reading with Vic and Jacob. So glad I did. I must admit that due to a few spring holidays and blog theme reads I probably won't finish the series now but it won't be years until I return either, hopefully not even months, perhaps weeks but no more than that.
Onto GhosTV.
HOLY HANNAH BATMAN!! There have been dark elements throughout the series so far but there was just something about GhosTV that really made those dark elements even darker. Perhaps it was Vic and Jacob's determination to find out what happened to Lisa and the personal draw that highlighted those dark times or maybe it was Vic's learning and exploring his astral talents that heaped on the creep or maybe it was certain characters and their natural creepiness that spoke bleaky volumes. Whatever it was, I gobbled it up like a kid gorging on their first trick-or-treat haul.
Vic and Jacob-what can I say? I love the beginnings of a relationship when we get to watch the parties learn and navigate their similarities and differences, watching the chemistry ignite. Having said that though I have always been pulled toward series that follow the same couple so that we can go from those first discoveries to established routines, being comfortable with status quo yet not losing the fire that ignited their beginnings. Vic and Jacob are somewhere in the middle of that journey, off the charts chemistry yet comfy with same old, same old.
The paranormal elements that the author brings to the table are so well developed that you almost believe you are living in the world of PsyCop where all that "out there" factors is a way of life known to all, even those that sneer down at Vic and those like him. On the flip side of the details-feel-real coin, the author doesn't mire the story down with so many intricacies that it reads like a paranormal101 college course. A delicate balance over a fine line of fiction/reality tug of war to be sure but a perfect balance for this reader.
I didn't go into any details of the case the duo is investigating so as not to spoil the story for any who like me are just discovering or returning to the series. Just know that it's amazingly fun and full of all kinds of yum to keep you on tenderhooks and hungry for more.
Summary:
Fortune Favors the Fae #13
Don’t Pick Up That Coin!
I was just an innocent author minding my own business. Until I found that coin…
The evil thing zapped me into the novel I was writing.
Now I’m dodging ogres, humans, elves, and a certain wizard-in-training with a proclivity for changing people into small harmless animals.
My only goal is to get home again, and the best way to do that is to get this book back on track. I must help the sexy exiled prince find his brother’s killer.
The only problem is that the prince keeps flirting with me rather than the women he’s supposed to be adding to the harem.
Wait! Flirting with me? That can’t be right.
Wait wait! Why did I call him sexy? Am I falling for the prince, too?
I Destroy the Elf Prince's Harem is a stand-alone novel within the Fortune Favors the Fae collection and follows the adventures of one poor author as he stumbles his way through his own novel and just maybe falls in love with the hero. Along the way he will encounter elves, humans, ogres, a wizard-in-training who's really bad at magic, jealousy, possessiveness, political intrigue, secrets, and a prince who has eyes for just one man. Unfortunately, that one man is as blind as a bat when it comes to love.
From spicy to sweet, zany romps to epic adventures, there’s something for everyone in the Fortune Favors the Fae series. Discover destiny and true love, and follow the coin on its fickle journey to the next world and a new magical adventure. Each book is a standalone and can be read in any order.
Summary:
Tentacular Tales #1
A sexy alien living incognito on Earth meets a sci-fi loving nerd who wants to rock his universe. What could possibly go wrong? Besides the unexpected tentacles and the accidental Mating Courtship Ritual, that is....
RIVER SULLIVAN
As a bona fide sci-fi nerd and total X-phile—the truth is out there—I’ve always believed in aliens. Duh. But I never thought I’d actually find them on Earth–let alone right here in Las Vegas! Now I’ve stumbled onto a big freakin’ secret and found my very own hot AF alien. I’m head over heels, but he’s being a total grump and holding back. How do I make him realize a geeky sunshine guy like me is just what he needs in his life? Did I mention he also has tentacles?!?! #HolyHentaiFantasyBatman #SwoonworthyAlien #SignMeUpSugar #MakeItSo #VivaLasVegas
KAI GENARO
The last thing I need in my life is a chatterbox twink who’s determined to woo me and could expose the secret existence of aliens on Earth to all humankind. Everything about him annoys me, including his stupidly attractive halo of golden curls and his bright green ‘come hither’ eyes. To make matters worse, he’s been recruited to work for the alien Alliance on Earth, and I’m assigned to keep him out of trouble. I don’t care how attractive he is. I don’t date humans! Except, my tentacles may have accidentally started the Mating Courtship Ritual with him…
It’s Not Unusual To Be Loved by an Alien (Tentacular Tales #1) is a (102,000 words) M/M sci-fi rom com featuring an adorkable twink with unexpected secrets and a slight obsession with extraterrestrials, the reluctant alien he wants to make his boo, tentacles with a mind of their own, zany extraterrestrial shenanigans in Sin City, and enough humor to fill an entire spaceship. This is the first book in the series. There is no cheating, and this book ends with a HFN. Never fear, the series guarantees readers an HEA by the end!
Summary:
Welcome to Morningwood #4
Dusty’s the town clown. Joseph is the uptight Sheriff. Sparks fly when these opposites collide.
Sheriff Joseph has kept a controlled eye on the quiet shifter community of Morningwood. As an alpha lion, he watches his town like he would his pride. Most days are peaceful, and that’s how he likes it. So, when Clydesdale shifter—and budding bad boy—Dusty starts pulling pranks, Joseph is quick to shut down his antics. Except, with each event, it becomes clear to Joseph that Dusty might be something more than just a thorn in his side.
Though they are in college, Dusty’s friends have all begun finding their mates, leaving him bored and lonely. Instead of sowing his wild oats, he’s left alone with his worries. His whole life he’s assumed he was an alpha, had lied to his friends claiming he was, but really, he doesn’t know. And won’t until he can find someone to be his first. Not so easy in a small, secluded town. He knows who he wishes would volunteer—his crush on the sheriff has grown to embarrassing proportions. Sheriff Joseph has all the emotions of a statue, and there is nothing Dusty would love more than to crack that cool facade. If only the Sheriff felt the same way.
When a new shifter comes to town, sniffing around Dusty and offering him a wild, carefree life, Joseph can’t ignore his attraction. He won’t let his fear of the town finding out, or Dusty’s age to dissuade him. He has to claim his mate or lose him forever. But can someone like him be the alpha Dusty needs?
Sack of Gold is the fourth book in the Welcome to Morningwood Omegaverse series and can be read as a standalone. It’s a steamy, fun romp that may or may not include sexy leprechauns. Hint: It definitely does.
Original Review March 2024:
Kiki Burrelli is another new-to-me-author that just so happened to have a holiday-themed series, Welcome to Morningwood, that fit multiple reading recs I asked for. So once again I jumped into an entry that was in the middle of said series. As I said before I am a series-read-in-order kind of gal so to do it once is unusual but to do so 3 times in less than a month is almost unheard of for me.
Sometimes desires must be fed . . .
So let's talk Sack of Gold, the 4th entry in the author's Welcome to Morningwood series. Sometimes you meet characters(main or secondary) that you just know in your heart they are not going to be on the likeable scale, be it pure evil, a flat-out ass, or just misunderstood, whatever the reason you know you won't be cheering for them. Dusty's friend, Cam is one of those people. I won't spoil anything else about that just know he won't be winning any BFF of the Year Awards.
As for Dusty and Sheriff Joseph, well they definitely have a few ups and downs and just when you thought a HEA was in the review mirror, the sheriff believes his eyes over his heart, which can be a good thing at times but not here. Dusty on the other hand could have seen this coming, I'm not placing blame on Dusty by any means, I'm just saying the signs were there but he is far too trusting and either didn't see them or ignored them not wanting to think bad of his friend. I mention these points because there are moments that are a bit darker than often found in a holiday shorts series. As I started in a middle entry I can't speak to the other entries in Burelli's Morningwood series and their darkness levels but for Sack of Gold there was some minor dark elements.
Overall, Sack of Gold(despite being a #4 in an established series for this read-in-order gal) is a perfect way to introduce myself to Kiki Burrelli's library and look forward to exploring Morningwood and other works, backlist and future releases.
Winsford Shifters #1
Rowan
My whole life, I’ve been taught to despise shifters. So when I’m hired to track two escaped convicts, I’m suddenly thrust into the world I hate—or thought I did. Yet I’m inexplicably drawn to the alpha of the pack whose land the convicts may be hiding on. He’s different than any shifter I've ever met—laid back and quick to laugh, caring and protective, and makes me feel complete for the first time in my life. As secrets are revealed, I start to wonder if everything I’ve been raised to believe was a lie, though it may not matter because it seems like someone wants us dead.
Quinn
I’m no stranger to prejudice from humans, but it’s different when Rowan comes into my life. Though I shouldn’t let myself be distracted, I’m captivated by him. At first, he’s stiff, fighting to keep his misconstrued beliefs intact, but as I break down the wall he’s created, I’m able to show him a place among the fun chaos of my pack. After one of my pack goes missing, it leaves Rowan and me racing to bring them home, but the only way we’re going to survive this is if Rowan learns to accept the bond that’s growing between us—a bond that could give us the strength to put aside our reservations and give in to what both of us want.
Of Secrets and Wolves is an action-filled romance with a dash of comedy. It’s the first book in a series with a continuing storyline and an HFN.
Random Paranormal Tales of 2024
GhosTV by Jordan Castillo Price
Chapter 1
Sunshine, fresh air and junk food. I told myself I could enjoy those things— or that’s the line I was feeding myself, anyway. This was the reality: my underwear was soaking wet and my head was ringing; I’d taken one too many Auracel and spun around a few too many times. If I was careful, really careful, the best I could hope for was keeping the chimichanga and the fried Snickers bar from making a reappearance.
I wasn’t obligated to talk to any dead people. I supposed that was something to be thankful for.
I did, however, feel somewhat obligated to talk to Jacob’s sister, Barbara. But only somewhat.
“…scored two goals during the first half of the game. You’d think the coach would have been proud, right? Instead, he said Clayton wasn’t a team player. That he didn’t pass the ball.”
“Must run in the family.”
Normal sounds, like screaming children, screaming adults, and the general wall of screaming humanity, continued on. But the conversation Barbara and I were diligently attempting to have fell down dead between us.
It belatedly occurred to me that I’d spoken aloud.
“I mean, uh, that’s what I like about Jacob. If he’s good at something, he doesn’t stand around waiting for someone else to take a turn at it. That’s fine for little-league soccer, maybe, but when it’s life or death, you want the best guy on your team to step up to the plate.” Okay, I was mixing baseball metaphors with my soccer, but I really didn’t know shit about soccer.
I risked a glance around the side of my cheap plastic sunglasses toward Barbara. She was watching me, which made me want to squirm—despite my damp underwear. Over at the Gut Scrambler, or whatever they were calling the latest ride that neither Barbara nor I were willing to be strapped into, Jacob and Clayton disembarked. They were quite the pair, all flushed cheeks and smiles. They stopped to peer at a bank of monitors that snapped shots of all the scream-laughing riders getting scrambled like a bunch of eggs.
“Aw, jees, he’s gonna talk Jacob into…” Barbara stood and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Clayton. You do not need a ten-dollar picture of yourself on that ride. I took plenty of pictures today with the phone.”
Clayton set his jaw, and holy shit, I hadn’t really seen it when I’d met him last November—but now that he was half a year older, I totally did. That was Jacob’s stubborn-look. In spades.
Genetics can be kinda creepy.
“Tell ’im he’ll wreck it on the log flume,” I muttered.
“You’ll get it wet on the log ride, and then what? You want to be stuck carrying that thing around all day?”
A tinge of bewilderment touched Clayton’s mulish expression. Jacob said something, maybe a promise to stand in line another half hour, ride again and get a photo on the way out. He probably didn’t want to be stuck carrying the thing around all day either—but he also had only one nephew, and as far as he was concerned, kids were made for spoiling.
Jacob and Clayton approached without the photo. One small success. Although I wouldn’t have minded being the photo carrier; it would’ve excused me from riding rides.
“I wanna go on King Chaos,” Clayton whined. He had exactly two modes of speech: whining, and bragging.
Our small group milled for position, and before I could drop to the rear, Jacob looped an arm through mine and pulled me against his side. “What do you say, Vic? You choose the next one after that.”
“I’ll, uh, keep my eyes open.” The list of rides I could actually stomach was pathetically small. Fast spinning and Auracel didn’t mix well. The act of getting strapped into anything and my own demons didn’t mix well, either. Even thoroughly potted on Auracel, I had no desire to ride through long, dark tunnels where God-knows-what might pop out. And my legs were too long for those teacup things. That left log rides. I tried to tell myself they were fun, but it seemed like every time my underwear finally dried off, I ended up sitting on one of those wet seats again—plus, as the tallest guy there, I was always the one to get nailed in the face with the funky, chemical-laced water. But at least it didn’t look like I was too wussy to ride anything.
The contraption Clayton was angling for was some mad scientist experiment that took a row of people and whipped them upside down like they were riding around inside a big bicycle pedal —though in addition to the “you must be this tall” sign, there was also a maximum height.
Yes.
“Gee, sorry,” I said. I was a good two inches taller than the sign, and even Jacob would need to seriously slouch to fake his way through it.
Clayton turned plaintive eyes toward his mother, who said, “Not in your wildest dreams.”
A train pulled up beside us with lots of fake steam and recorded clanging, and Jacob looked at it, and then at me, and raised his eyebrow.
Clayton whined, “I don’t wanna go on that stupid—“
Barbara said, “Give Uncle Jacob and Vic a break for ten minutes, okay? We’ll get some popcorn.”
“I dunno why they wanna go on that stupid….”
I climbed onto the emptiest train car, with only one other rider in it who was staring out at the amusement park and keeping to himself. “Thanks, Barb,” Jacob said. He gave his sister and nephew a little wave. Clayton gave me the evil eye in return. I hoped psychic ability didn’t run in Jacob’s family like stubbornness did.
Without much thinking about it, I sucked white light and put up a barrier between myself and Clayton’s scowling face. I didn’t really feel the power—not like I would have if I weren’t on antipsyactives—but psychically shielding myself was second nature to me by now, like blowing on my coffee to lessen the scald factor or positioning myself upwind of a rotting corpse.
Jacob eased an arm around me and said, “I’m really glad you came.”
I didn’t see why, but I did my best not to sigh or roll my eyes. I’d figured it wouldn’t kill me to sit there for a day and zone out on meds if this family time meant that much to him. “Long as you don’t mind me being a spectator.” I hadn’t realized the buckles and straps would trigger a restraint-reaction from me. I told myself it was just a seatbelt, but my subconscious didn’t buy it, and I ended up bowing out before the spiral flingy upside-down coaster got going.
It was easiest to say the Auracel wasn’t sitting right. In theory, sharing your burdens should make them lighter. But in practice, I hate watching it register on Jacob’s face when he catches me in a Camp Hell flashback.
The train chugged through some Mardi Gras section that looked like a cartoonist’s vision of pre-Katrina New Orleans, and then a stand of palm-looking trees that had absolutely no business growing in the suburbs of Chicago. Jacob pulled me closer and nuzzled my hair. “Next time we both get a day off at the same time, you pick. Anything you want to do.”
I leaned into him. It felt risky, like someone might pop out of the fake woodwork screaming for his autograph, the famous Jacob Marks, darling of the local media—and there he’d be, rubbing up against some guy. But people you see on TV look different in person. Over the airwaves, they’re taller, tanner, younger, and more coiffed. And people were accustomed to seeing Jacob in a suit instead of a sloppy, faded T-shirt and cargo shorts. He’d grown his hair out maybe an inch, and while it had started its day immaculately combed, the whirling and scrambling and whipping around and splashing had left it no better off than mine—and given the relative failure of my most recent haircut, that was saying a lot. For today, at least, Jacob was just a regular guy.
A hot as hell regular guy who was breathing in my ear, but a regular guy, nonetheless.
“You can be my slave for the day,” I suggested.
“Really?” he purred, directly into my ear. I’d been kidding—but maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. “What’ll that entail? Feeding you?” His breath was warm on my cheek. “Bathing you? With my tongue?”
“I don’t know yet. Gotta keep you on your toes.” No doubt about it—between Jacob and me, he’s got all the testosterone. And yet, maybe he really would get off on the idea of waiting on me hand and foot—and tongue—like that. Problem was, experimenting in bed was kind of like riding amusement park rides. Sure, they were fun, but sometimes you rued the day you ever got in that line.
A big-kid ride roared past us and the wall of scream trailed along in the wake of the metal cage full of freshly flung people. Jacob and I watched. Horror and delight, all mingled together.
I wondered if I would’ve liked rides—if my life hadn’t been…my life.
“So how’re you hanging in there—really?”
“It’s uh…I dunno. It’s fine.”
“You had a look.”
I shook my head. Sometimes I got really sick of myself. “I’ve always got a look. Never mind. I’m having fun.”
We chugged through a really artificial-looking garden, with flowers in colors you never see in nature planted in rows with military precision. Popcorn bags and paper cups drifted against the planter and mounded around the bases of the garbage cans that were set in every few feet, with yellowjackets swarming their swinging lids.
“It’s too bad about the Auracel. Remember those swings?” Jacob nodded at an older strip of rides with much shorter lines than the new, popular attractions. The swing riders were achieving liftoff as they spun in a big circle. “They had those back when we were kids.”
“Did they?”
“Sure. Those, and slides, and bumper cars, and wooden coasters.”
“And funhouses.” I couldn’t be sure if I actually remembered being in a funhouse or if I’d just seen one on TV. My patchwork brain likes to keep me guessing.
“Now it’s all how fast and how far you can fall.” Jacob pulled me against him tighter. “Don’t let me say that in front of Clayton. I probably sound as old as my dad.”
I gave his knee a squeeze. King Chaos loomed up ahead of us. Cripes. I was glad I was too tall to ride. It looked like a stiff neck with Valium written all over it, even from the ground. The train tooted and chugged and pulled up to the spot we’d first climbed on. Jacob turned to give me a hand down, and then didn’t bother letting go of my hand. This was unusual for him. He’s not really into public displays of affection. But he was having a sentimental kind of day.
Barbara and Clayton both stood and walked over. Clayton said, as if we were all talking about whether the clouds would turn to rain, or if we’d prefer pizza to burgers, “This kid Tyler at school says that faggots are perverts and they should all be put in jail.”
Barbara went white. I let go of Jacob’s hand not because I gave a rat’s ass what an eleven-year-old snotnosed punk thought of me touching his uncle, but because I wanted to attempt to catch his mother if she fainted.
“Clayton Joseph,” Barbara barked. She sounded like Jacob telling a crackhead to drop his weapon. “You apologize this very second.”
“But that’s what he said.” Clayton’s whine cut through my head like a dentist’s drill. “I’m not making it up.”
Barbara put her face directly in her kid’s. “You are old enough to know when you’re repeating something that will hurt somebody’s feelings.”
“Barb.” Jacob sounded…I couldn’t quite place it. Maybe he sounded like I did when things went south—not like I’d been expecting anything better, but maybe I’d held out a glimmer of hope that it didn’t necessarily need to be all that bad. He sounded weary. “Clayton’s going to hear things. I’d rather he heard them from me.”
He put his arm around Clayton, and what a relief, the kid didn’t flinch. I suspected he might not be at the point where he really got what sex was even about, not deep down in his balls.
I might’ve noticed other boys “that way” when I was his age, but come on. Back then Teen Beat was full of boy cheesecake, and I was assailed by images of smooth chests, long, feathered hair and limpid, dreamy-eyed smiles at the checkout line every time I grabbed a pack of gum. And maybe I was just ahead of the curve in that department—or maybe you’d have to be dead not to notice.
Jacob walked Clayton toward the snow cone stand while I jammed my hands in my pockets and wandered in a holding pattern, and Barbara dug around in her purse as if she might unearth the answer to all our problems there, if only she looked hard enough. Instead she found some clear lip gloss, the kind with the sponge tip applicator, which she applied with a vengeance.
“It’s not like it’s news to him that Jacob is gay,” she said. “We’ve always been upfront about it.”
My wet underwear clung to me like a trick who’d worn out his welcome. “Uh-huh.”
“I don’t know who this ‘Tyler at school’ person is.”
“Does it matter? I mean, if it’s not him, it’ll be someone else. Right?”
Barbara spotted a bench covered in cartoon characters and sat down hard. I hovered behind her. Ten yards away, Jacob handed Clayton a green snow cone. The kid took it and gave it a lick, all the while looking daggers at us. At me. The snow cone vendor handed Jacob another one. Red. Jacob caught my eye and pointed at his blindingly red snow cone as if to ask me if I wanted one. I shook my head.
“It’s nice of you to sit out all the rides so that Clayton can be with Jacob. He idolizes my brother, you know. It probably doesn’t seem like it, what with that outburst.”
“No, I um…” I perched on the back of the bench and my wet underwear rode up my ass. “He’s probably, uh, y’know.” Damn it. Words were so useless sometimes. I did my best to figure out a way to say he was just being especially bratty because some fag was monopolizing his uncle—without coming out and using those exact words. “He probably feels…things…more intensely. Because they’re so close.”
She gave me a sideways look, one of those zingers where I totally saw Jacob around the eyes, the type of look he’d give me when he knew I wasn’t being polygraph-level truthful with him. Then she sighed and re-settled her purse in her lap. “Yeah. Probably.”
“I’m not so big on rides anyway.”
Another Jacob-ish look, a notch or two more analytical. “Is there some medical reason…?”
“No, uh…not exactly.” Was Post Traumatic Stress Disorder medical? No doubt. But I’d been diagnosed by my backstabbing ex, and not a real doctor—although Stephan was technically a health care professional nowadays. The whole thing made me want to break out in a cold sweat. “Maybe.”
“Huh.” She found a pair of sunglasses in her purse, blew the lint off the lenses, and put them on. “I always pictured Jacob with someone a little more athletic.”
What was that supposed to mean?
Jacob and Clayton had taken the long way around the food court, and they approached the bench, Clayton with green-tinged lips, Jacob with a wicked red mouth. Jacob stopped a couple of steps back and Clayton shuffled forward. I’d figured he was going to ask his mother for something, but then I realized he was aimed, more or less, at me. Neither one of us cared to initiate eye contact.
“I’m sorry I said something rude about gay people,” he said. There was no inflection in the sentence, as if he’d read it, poorly, from a teleprompter.
“Yeah, uh…” what was I supposed to say? Apology accepted? You’re forgiven? How queer. “That’s okay.”
The tension was thick enough to cut with a spork, but then, as if nothing had just happened, Clayton suddenly brightened, turned to Jacob and said, “If we can’t go on King Chaos, can we ride the Scrambler again?”
I Destroyed the Elf Prince's Harem by Jocelynn Drake
Chapter 1
The Part Where I Died
What a fucking mess.
There are very obvious and important reasons introverts don’t have a lot of friends, and among those reasons is that it can get you killed.
Not that I thought my friends would kill me.
Or even intended for me to die.
But, well…that was what happened.
So, before we even begin, let me just put a warning out there to any of my fellow authors and scribblers who might read this: Don’t leave the house. Really. Don’t do it.
I was behind on my latest book. Weeks behind. And that was not a good thing when I was supposed to be releasing new chapters every day as part of an online serial called Betrayal of the Elf Prince. The only thing keeping me sane was that I had worked ahead of my daily release schedule. That way, if I wanted to take a night off or caught a cold, I’d be able to take a break without skipping a posting day.
But now I was posting new chapters the same day I wrote them, and there was zero wiggle room for me to take a day off without risking the ire of my voracious readers. These people were paying my bills, and they were depending on me to deliver their daily dose of adrenaline and dopamine. What kind of dealer would I be if I didn’t deliver on time?
Of course, Betrayal of the Elf Prince started out strong, with Prince Xeran getting tangled up in court intrigue, killing his twin brother, and going on a long quest that would result in him gaining an enormous harem as he climbed back from his exile to take the throne.
Except I wasn’t smart enough to plot anything out ahead of time. I was writing this book by the seat of my pants. My writing muse had possessed me as words flew from my fingertips and the keyboard clattered in my one-bedroom apartment. I was existing on ramen, coffee, and snack cakes. None of that mattered because the book was surging out of me.
The only problem was that the river of words had eventually dried up.
Where the hell was I going with this book? Sure, Prince Xeran was the “hero” of the book, but was he a good guy? Or was I plotting to put a villain on the throne? Who had really killed his twin brother? And who was at the core of this tangled plot I’d created? Another sibling? A rival kingdom? Someone in his harem playing the long con?
I had no fucking clue.
So, the words stopped cold.
And the longer the words stayed frozen in my brain, the greater my panic became.
I reached out to my friend Georgie to bitch and moan about the mess I’d created. Of course, Georgie cackled at me, being the loving, supportive friend that she was.
It might also have been because I’d run my mouth a few months earlier, saying that she had it easier because she was a romance author, and how hard could it be to write sex?
Yeah, we won’t be talking about how my first sex scene of this grand harem adventure story I was writing sounded like assembly instructions for an Ikea bookshelf.
I’d since eaten crow, apologized for being a pompous ass, and graciously accepted some brutal critiques from her on how to write sex properly.
In the meantime, Georgie’s answer to all my problems was to get out of the house.
Georgie: Go outside.
Me: Ewwwww…
Georgie: Fresh air and a walk will get your brain working again. Staring at your computer screen isn’t fixing shit.
Me: But…but…outside is messy and there are people out there. That’s also going to require me to shower and locate pants.
Georgie: OUTSIDE
Me: You’re mean.
Georgie: You need to remember how to human.
Me: But people, Georgie. PEOPLE.
Georgie: Time to put on your big boy pants, Adam.
Georgie: Wanna meet Jack and me for lunch? We’ll protect you from the people and you can eat something that has a vitamin or two. We’ll even help you brainstorm your plot.
Me: …but pants…
Georgie: Yes, you’ll have to shower and put on pants, but you’ll get fresh air and a fixed plot. That’s a fair trade.
As much as I hated the idea of going outside among the masses, she was right. I needed to fix this mess, and glaring at the computer wasn’t doing it any longer. As it was, I would have to tell my readers I was going to miss a posting day. If Georgie and Jack could help me fix this mess, I’d risk only losing one writing day.
So, after a little more coaxing—because I was that big of a baby—I agreed to meet her downtown for lunch at a cute restaurant with outdoor patio seating. She wasn’t letting this “fresh air” thing go.
The shower worked a few small miracles, and I located some clothes that made me appear to be a well-adjusted, normal human being. I caught a ride-share downtown and stopped off at a bookstore ahead of the agreed time and browsed the shelves.
When I hit the sidewalk and walked toward the restaurant, the worst of the dark clouds that had been hovering over my head had dissipated and the warm, late-spring sun was shining on the city. Blue skies above, a soothing breeze, and some new books in my backpack. Now I was off to meet up with friends to have proper food. If I were lucky, I’d get a few good suggestions to fix my book and all would be right in my world again. It was as though the gods were smiling down on me at last.
To reach the restaurant a couple of blocks away, I had to cross a bridge that stretched over an old canal that wound through the city. The water was usually a calm stream with a few tiny rapids and adorable waterfalls. However, this spring had brought endless rains, and the stream had swollen so that it gushed like an untamed river under the arched stone bridge.
As I crossed, something gold and shiny glinted from a clot of leaves in the gutter. I bent and fished out a coin. It was about the size of a persimmon, with a dragon on one side and a raven on the other. My eyebrows lifted as I flipped it over. The quality was exquisite, but there was no fucking way I’d found a real gold coin in the gutter. If I’d lost this much gold, I would have spent the rest of my life searching for it.
With my thumb, I rubbed away the bit of dirt that clung to the details minted into the coin, but there were no words on it. Nothing to indicate who had made the coin or what it was related to. The thing looked brand-new, as if someone had made it that afternoon. Other than possibly being gold, this wasn’t actual fungible currency.
However, that didn’t stop it from being gorgeous.
Maybe my luck was turning around. This was the start of a great day.
Whistling to myself, I flipped the coin into the air. The gold winked and reflected the brilliant sunlight as it spun. It was as though laughter had become a solid, tangible thing to be held in your hand. I caught the coin in my right and squeezed it, preparing to slap it on my left hand just to see what creature would appear, when crunching metal and squealing tires jerked my head up.
The world exploded into chaos in the blink of an eye. A giant black SUV had plowed through a smaller red sedan and was racing straight at me, its massive engine roaring like a dragon. My heart leaped into my throat, and all thought screeched to a halt. Panic and terror powered my legs, sending them backpedaling as fast as I could move. The heels of my sneakers slipped and gripped the uneven pavement.
With a bump and a trip, I tumbled over the stone railing of the bridge. My feet went over my head once, and then I was falling toward the rushing stream.
If I didn’t bash my head on the rocks, I was going to get sucked under by the racing waters.
Fuck.
This is why I should never have left my house.
It's Not Unusual To Be Loved by an Alien by Chloe Archer
Chapter One
“There’s a big universe out there. You’ve got to keep an open mind and a watchful eye if you’re going to explore it.”
—Captain Starblade, The Tentacular Tales of Captain Starblade,Ch. 1
RIVER
I’m about ninety-eight percent sure my new neighbor is an alien.
That’s why I’m following him super-covert-Mission-Impossible-style down a deserted highway at 3:00 a.m. on a Wednesday night as one naturally does if one’s a believer in all things extraterrestrial.
“Don’t you have work in a few hours?” Uncle Benji asks from the passenger seat as he pops a cannabis edible gummy into his mouth, chewing on it with an air of nonchalance.
Benji, like me, is still wearing his pajamas since we had to vamoose to follow our new neighbor/secret-alien-in-our-midst tonight. I’m stylin’ in my super-sexy TARDIS PJs, while Benji’s sporting his favorite ratty orange cardigan over a faded Beavis and Butthead T-shirt and striped cotton pants. Like all of his well-worn clothing, they’re liberally flecked with a rainbow array of paint from past and present paintings he’s been working on. His long, lustrous brown hair, tinged with gray, is pulled up in a messy man-bun, looking like something that took hours to perfect but only took him ten seconds to create. It’s like he’s a freaking runway model or the lead in a sexy shampoo commercial. Even though he’s in his early forties, his mane of hair, turning a stunning silvery gray, brings out his pale green eyes and makes him appear mysterious.
In contrast, my hair is a wild nest of crazy blonde curls with a mind of their own. I’m lucky if I can get a comb through my mop of hair most days. It’s so cosmically unfair.
The truth is Benji doesn’t care about things like his appearance. He’s a total Gen X hippie pothead. A lot of people dismiss him as ‘too quirky,’ but he’s an incredibly successful artist—and the best partner in crime. Especially when it comes to stalking possible aliens.
I hunch my shoulders at his question about work. “No. They didn’t renew my contract.”
Benji hums thoughtfully. “Why not? I thought it was a done deal after the probationary period?”
I sink down into my seat, keeping my eyes fixed on the tail lights I’m following. “Apparently, I don’t fit into their ‘cohort dynamic’ or some corporate buzzword bullshit.”
What my now former boss had added ‘off the record’ was that my co-workers thought I was super fucking weird—I never should have talked about my alien neighbor at work—and that my technical writing veered into ‘unnecessary flamboyant embellishment’ or ‘poetic whimsy’. Sue me for trying to make technical writing more interesting. I know I would enjoy a bit of whimsy the next time I have to put a stupidly complicated desk together.
“They didn’t even give me the chance to change or improve anything.” I scowl. “Nope. Just let me go instead.”
Benji clucks. “They sound like a bunch of dickbags.”
I can always rely on him not to judge. His solidarity is touching, and I feel momentarily better. We’re totally one another’s kind of weird. Even if stupid, boring coworkers don’t get me, Benji does.
“Maybe this is a good thing? I was so fucking bored there. Technical writing seemed like a smart way to make money until my fiction career took off, but it’s utterly mind-numbing.”
Benji strokes his short beard and yawns. “It’ll be okay, Tigger. I make more than enough money from my art. I can help you out for a while until you find something better. It’s all good.”
I give a resigned sigh. Benji has called me Tigger since I was a toddler. I’ve always had a lot of excess energy. But as a child, it was even more over the top. According to Benji, the mix of my enthusiastic talking-a-mile a minute personality, and my tendency to bounce all over the place with an unmatched level of boisterousness, solidified the dreaded Nickname-That-Will-Not-Die.
Even my parents had started using it before I lost them.
“I have some savings. Until I find something else, I’ll be able to get by on that for a while. I already get to live with you rent free. That’s more than enough.”
“As they say, mi casa es tu casa.” Benji shrugs. “The house is paid off, anyway. It was your parents’, and now it belongs to both of us.”
“Thanks, man.”
I dart a glance at him, a familiar warmth blooming in my chest as I watch him pop another edible with a contented expression on his face. I always marvel at how chill he is about so many things in life. Granted, I’m sure being semi stoned most of the time helps, but still. He has the looks of a scruffy Keanu Reeves à la Ronin and John Wick but the utterly laid-back personality of The Dude in The Big Lebowski.
More than a few of my friends have had the hots for him over the years. I’m not surprised, but it’s always weird as fuck.
Tonight, as usual, Benji seems entirely at ease even though we’re on the trail of a bona fide extraterrestrial—a brother from another planet—hiding among us. For Benji, it’s apparently just another night.
He pops a third gummy in his mouth and chews it with a mellow smile. Looks like he’s trying to taste the entire rainbow this evening, so I’ll need to keep him on task.
“Did you bring your Polaroid?” I ask for the umpteenth time. I don’t want to leave anything to chance.
Of course, I have my cell phone, but I sure as shit don’t trust capturing evidence of alien life on digital technology alone. Too many ways for stuff to get wiped or altered. Polaroid pictures are a pretty good, if hella ancient, back up option on the fly, and…well…we really didn’t have time to grab anything else on the way out of the house. Hate to admit it, but this tailing adventure was a wee bit rushed.
Benji gestures toward the rucksack at his feet. “The Polaroid’s ready to rock and roll, kiddo.”
I nod, feeling a bit more reassured. “Good. You need to be ready to use it once you can get a clear shot,” I remind him.
He gives me a slow thumbs up and a hazy smile. “I got you covered on the photography front tonight. Don’t worry.”
I mostly believe him. My uncle isn’t exactly the most reliable guy in the world, especially now it looks like the edibles are kicking in, but at least he’s also a believer.
In aliens, I mean.
He leans back in his seat with a slightly fuzzy gaze, the picture of serenity. “It’s like we’re on our very own X-Files adventure.” He giggles. “I still remember when I introduced you to that show. You immediately had the hots for Fox Mulder.”
My nostrils flare. “Excuse me, but you also thought he was hot like fire.”
“Nah. Krycek was more my type—dark, suave, and dangerous.” Benji gives a lazy shrug. “But I wouldn’t have kicked Mulder outta bed, if you know what I mean.”
I snicker and nod at that undeniable truth. It was seriously amazing being raised by my gay uncle after my parents died. Coming out was not even a thing at home. We had a lot of shared interests—including the megahot men of sci-fi movies and television.
I roll my eyes and unleash the snark. “Bitch, please. You’d be lucky to bag Skinner.”
Benji arches an eyebrow at my teasing tone, a glint in his eyes—an even paler shade of green than my own. “Hey, I’m down for that. Now that I’ve hit my forties, I can totally appreciate the understated sexiness of Skinner. He was actually pretty damn hot. And most definitely rockin’ a fit bod under those suits.”
I shake my head as I ponder this revelation. “Maaaaaybe? I still say my number one bald heartthrob will always be Captain Jean-Luc Picard.”
We immediately high five in agreement.
“Classy. Can’t disagree with you there,” Benji murmurs, then snorts. “Dude, I still remember when you wanted to create your own queer X-Files fan convention. You took your love of the show to a whole new level with that one.” He muffles another giggle-snort behind his hand.
I sniff and straighten in my seat. “Okay, sure, maybe I had a slight obsession with the X-Files and Fox Mulder in my middle school years, but that’s neither here nor there. Also, I still stand by my plan for Rainbow Foxy-Con 2013. It would have brought together all the queer fans and celebrated our respective loves for Scully and Mulder—or both. No bi erasure permitted.”
Benji slowly shakes his head in what I like to think of as complete awe of my ingenuity and brilliance. “It would have been amazing to witness, that’s for sure.”
“No shade, honey. But, who needs Rainbow Foxy-Con when we have a real life alien in our very backyard!” I wiggle in my seat and grin.
“It’ll be the story of a lifetime if we can prove neighborman is an extraterrestrial. It’ll change everything, kiddo.”
“Exactly. We may not have any actual evidence of alien life yet, but that’s all going to change tonight.”
As if to prove my point, I hit the accelerator of my old hatchback and doggedly follow our sketchy new neighbor’s trail as we move deeper into the desert, leaving the bright lights of Vegas far behind. Thankfully, our quarry doesn’t seem to notice he’s being followed.
Mr. Tom Jones, as my neighbor introduced himself—an obviously fake name if I’ve ever heard one—moved into the beige stucco two-story house right next to us three months ago and pinged our radars from the get-go. Ever since then, we’ve been covertly observing him.
We’re not creepers. We’re astute detectors of anomalies that could be extraterrestrial in nature.
Sure, on the surface Mr. Jones appears human, but that doesn’t mean squat. We’ve watched enough sci-fi movies and TV series between the two of us to know plenty of aliens look just like us. Hello. Timelords anyone?
But I digress.
Mr. Jones, I’m sad to say, is not a sexy-as-fuck Timelord. Why does reality never live up to my fantasies? He’s actually a rather ordinary-looking guy with a bad penchant for dressing like his namesake. You wouldn’t immediately see him and think—Boom! Proof of alien existence on Earth right here, folks.
But his behavior is really fucking bizarre.
At first, it was little things that seemed out of the ordinary. Like the strange looking satellite Mr. Jones mounted on his roof shortly after moving in. The thing is massive. Look, I’m not a nerd for nothing. I know a thing or two about satellite dishes, and I’ve never seen one like this before. When I tried to ask him about it, he laughed and told me he had insider connections with a friend in Japan who hooked him up with the latest satellite technology that hadn’t even made it over here yet.
I don’t think so, Mister Alien Neighborman.
Benji suspects the device is actually a beacon to our neighbor’s comrades in space. I’m inclined to agree.
But what made us most suspicious of Mr. Jones was the fact he never turns his AC on.
In Vegas.
In the middle of summer.
“I like it hot!” He told me with awkward finger guns and a chuckle one day.
I like it hot? Seriously? I do not exaggerate when I say Sin City turns hotter than Satan’s asshole from May to November. In high summer, no one, and I mean no one, can live without AC. It’s a legitimate health hazard. Buffy the Vampire Slayer got it wrong—if a Hellmouth were ever to open here on Earth, it would happen in Vegas. Temperatures regularly stay in the 110s here, the sun beating down with scorching ferocity. You can cook eggs on the freaking sidewalk, for fuck’s sake. There are plenty of YouTube videos to prove it. Despite all this, Mr. Jones not only doesn’t turn on the AC in his house, he also spends all day outside in his backyard without seeming to break a sweat. Meanwhile, the rest of us melt just walking from our homes to our cars.
Super. Fucking. Sus.
I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t connect the dots at first until one night when I was talking with Benji about all the oddities we’d observed with our new neighbor. Tom Jones was out for the evening doing who-the-hell-knows-what, and we were outside on our patio watching the night sky together when Benji took a hit off his favorite bong and then said, out of the blue, “Dude, maybe he’s an alien?”
And that was the eureka moment.
My jaw dropped open in amazement, and everything started to click. A lightbulb turned on in my brain, burning bright enough to rival the neon lights of Vegas. Quite frankly, I was amazed I hadn’t thought of it first. That was when our covert alien investigation was born. We’re doing this in the name of science—and for all our fellow conspiracy-loving alien believers, of course.
We’ve been observing Mr. Jones for weeks now, watching for anything unusual or any noticeable disruptions to his schedule. And tonight, it finally happened.
I’ll admit I didn’t expect the perfect opportunity to materialize quite so soon.
Shortly before 3:00 a.m., I was jolted out of sleep when I heard the unmistakable sound of Mr. Jones’s garage door opening. It’s been in need of some WD-40 for a while, producing a horrible, cringe-worthy screech every time it opens and closes.
I practically levitated out of bed, shoved my glasses on my face, and raced downstairs. After all, there are only so many opportunities in one’s lifetime to find evidence of alien life on Earth.
“Benji!” I shrieked as I flew into the living room. “He’s going somewhere!”
My uncle’s a bit of an insomniac, so he was actually awake on the couch drinking a beer and watching old reruns of some weird animated show from his teenage years called Daria.
He blinked at me. “Dude, are you sleepwalking?”
I hopped from foot to foot. “He’s getting away!”
“Who?”
“Mr. Jones! Didn’t you hear his garage opening just now?”
He took a slow sip of beer. “My bad. I was totally absorbed in my show.”
We both heard the car start next door and the loud notes of a Tom Jones song—oh the irony!—blasting from the stereo. We were in luck. Our unusual neighbor hadn’t left yet.
I tapped my foot. “No time to waste. We have to tail him.”
Benji blinked at me owlishly and belched.
“I’ll explain in the car,” I said, yanking him up off the couch and dragging him toward our garage.
I turned to my dog, a bizarre looking mutt of advanced years who can best be described as a cross between a miniature hairy Wookie and a feisty Terrier. He lay comfortably stretched out on the couch. Amidst all the commotion, he had deigned to crack one eye open to observe us.
“You stay here and guard the house, Chewy.”
He let out a chuffing noise in what sounded like annoyed agreement before closing his eye. Poor little guy doesn’t enjoy having his sleep disrupted at his advanced age.
Once Benji and I got in my car, I hightailed it out of our sleepy suburban housing complex, barely managing to catch our quarry’s trail as he exited the neighborhood and turned onto the main road.
“Tonight we get definitive proof aliens do exist. Fuck yeah!”
“Right on, man.” Benji reached into the rucksack he’d brought along and pulled out a battered CD case. “I got some perfect tunes for us.” He slid the disc into my CD player, the relic of a bygone era, and a testament to the fact my poor car is older than I am.
The familiar opening chords of the Beastie Boys’ “Sabotage” started playing, and I grinned back at him. “Awwww, yeah!”
Our heads nodding along to the unstoppable beat, we bombed along the highway—high on the thrill of the chase and our quest for truth.
We’ve been following Mr. Jones for a good while now, though, and some of my initial excitement has waned, especially as we’re getting farther and farther away from civilization.
Living in Las Vegas is a surreal experience on an almost daily basis. But, it’s also easy to forget the city is basically out in the middle of nowhere in the desert. Hop on the freeway, and it’s not too long before you leave the bright lights of civilization far behind and find yourself alone in the desolate, dusty vastness with nothing more than rocks, dirt, and cacti to keep you company.
I glance at the busted-up digital clock on my dashboard, the numbers hard to read without squinting. We’ve been following Mr. Jones on the I-15 N for forty minutes or so, but my heart starts pounding like the bass in a Britney dance song when I see his blinker signaling his intent to get off on exit 75.
“OMG, he’s going to the Valley of Fire.” I’m barely able to contain my renewed excitement.
Benji whistles, his pupils huge, as he gives me a dopey grin. “What do you wanna bet we’re heading to the freaking mothership?”
The very idea sends prickles of exhilaration through me, and I bounce a little in my seat. “You think? Holy fucking shitballs. That would be epic.” I pause for a moment, considering. “But how do you suppose he’s hiding it out here?”
Benji ponders this, but then shrugs. “Aliens got their damn cloaking devices and shit, right?”
“According to Star Trek at least. And Star Wars.” I nod to myself. “So, basically sci-fi gospel.”
“Exactamundo.”
It doesn’t take long before we leave the interstate and merge onto the more remote highway leading to the Valley of Fire. But, after about ten minutes, Mr. Jones pulls off onto a dirt road heading to Who-the-Hell-Knows-Where.
I glance over at Benji. We give each other a silent nod of agreement, and I prepare to follow.
“Turn off the headlights. We gotta be stealthy and all.”
“Good call, OBenji-Wan Kenobi.” I flip off the lights, allowing darkness to further engulf the world around us as we bump down the road, the shocks on my poor car squeaking in protest with every dip and pothole.
The farther we drive, the creepier things get. Out here, far from the bright lights of Vegas, it feels as if we’re being swallowed up by the blackness of the night. As my eyes adjust, the moon casts enough of a pale glimmer I can sort of see where we’re going. Barely.
Mr. Jones’s tail lights are a faint red homing beacon in the distance leading us toward whatever we’re going to discover. Possibly something no human has ever witnessed before.
A thrill courses through my body as I whisper, “I want to believe.”
Benji pops one last gummy in his mouth—presumably for good luck—before putting the packet in his cardigan pocket for later. I guess he’s finally starting to get serious now we’re closing in on our target.
I gently tap my cell phone screen on the mounted dashboard holder only to have my worst suspicions confirmed. No signal. We’re in a dead zone. This can often happen in parts of the desert, but considering what we’re doing, it gives me the willies.
A thought enters my brain unbidden. And, it’s one I realize really should have occurred to me much sooner. Nervous sweat forms between my shoulder blades, and I shiver as a drop trickles down my back.
“Uh, Benji?” My voice didn’t just squeak, did it?
“Yeah?”
“You don’t think Mr. Jones is…a dangerous alien, right?” I clear my throat, my mouth dry. “He’s not, like, bent on replacing us with pod people?”
He stares at me, eyes widening. “No idea. Let’s hope not.”
I let out an awkward chuckle that catches in my throat. Maybe following Mr. Jones on our own was a bad idea? It’s an inconvenient moment to realize we aren’t equipped to handle potential alien invaders. And haven’t I seen enough movies to know this could be an actual possibility?
But before I can worry about this startling prospect any further, Mr. Jones’s tail lights disappear around a rocky outcropping ahead, and my attention returns to the task at hand.
We hold our breath as we continue to follow at a safe distance. When we reach the rocky outcropping, I gulp. “I’m going to slow down. We don’t know what’s around this bend, so let’s be cautious.”
“Smart thinking, Tigger.”
I slow my hatchback to a crawl. As we creep closer, we spy our target a short distance down the road, stopped at a metal gate.
Squinting in the dark, I watch from the faint illumination of his headlights as he unlocks the gate before hopping back into his car and driving through. I inch forward in pursuit.
Then, as Mr. Jones’s car passes beyond the gate, it seems to disappear into thin air.
I slam on the brakes. “What the actual fuck?”
“Whoa. Careful, man.” Benji rubs at his eyes and stares at the empty desert before us. “What the—?”
We turn and mirror each other’s slack-jawed looks of confusion.
I blink. “What the hell happened?”
Benji shakes his head. “No idea. That was some trippy shit, though.”
Pulling my glasses off, I rub my eyes before putting the frames back on and squinting at the spot where our neighbor disappeared.
I wasn’t hallucinating. That was for real.
“Alien technology. It’s got to be.” I tell Benji this with growing conviction. “Some kind of cloaking mechanism like we thought. There must be something awesome past that gate.”
“Most likely,” Benji agrees. He leans over, plucking his Polaroid camera out of his bag. “I’m ready, young Padawan.”
I nod with the appropriate solemnity for this once in a lifetime event. “Let’s do this, OBenji-Wan.”
With my heart hammering, I pat my steering wheel. “Come on Serenity, don’t fail me now.” I nose her forward and turn onto the dirt path where we saw Mr. Jones disappear. Upon closer investigation, the gate only extends over the dirt trail, and Mr. Jones left it open in his haste.
Score.
From our vantage point though, there’s a whole lot of nothing beyond the gate. Just desert rocks, dirt, and scrub brush. At least that’s all I can see in the faint light of the moon.
Taking a deep breath, my hands gripping the wheel until my knuckles whiten, I tap the gas. I resist the urge to squeeze my eyes shut as we cross the boundary.
And that’s all it takes. One moment we’re surrounded by the arid desert landscape with nothing around for miles, and the next we’re looking up at an imposing concrete edifice I can only hypothesize is a covert alien base.
Armed men and women in strange uniforms patrol the perimeter of the building and staff the checkpoint entrance several hundred yards ahead of us.
And there, beyond the base, looming impossibly large in the background, is a freaking spaceship. It looks like something out of my Star Trek and Star Wars fantasies. Only cooler, if that’s even possible.
I can’t help the loud gasp that escapes my mouth. Even after all these years, a tiny part of me never thought this moment was possible. Tonight, we’ve hit the motherfreaking jackpot.
“Wicked.” Benji’s whisper drifts off as he lifts his Polaroid and snaps a picture.
My hands are shaking as I raise my cell phone and capture half a dozen digital pictures of my own. “We just hit the damn mother lode.”
Benji snorts. “Mothership, more like.”
We immediately high five one another in solidarity.
“I’m going to start recording this motherfucking moment of a lifetime.” I turn the video recording function on as I direct my phone back at the checkpoint in time to see a guard wave Mr. Jones forward in his vehicle before glancing in our direction.
Abort! Abort! My mind screams at me.
Of course, my brain’s a few milliseconds too late because that’s when a blaring siren starts going off.
Benji and I turn to one another with matching expressions of dawning horror. “Shiiiiiiiiiiit.”
A loud rapping at my driver’s side window has me jumping and shrieking like a three-year-old in Target.
An armed guard in a blue and gray uniform materializes out of nowhere, pointing his big—that’s no euphemism—deadly-looking weapon at me. “Out of the vehicle. Hands in the air!”
I gulp and let out another strange, yet totally manly, squeak. I sure hope these aliens are friendly, or I’m afraid our luck may have run out.
Sack of Gold by Kiki Burrelli
Chapter One
DUSTY
"Heads up, Dusty!" Cam called out from the shore a moment before launching a can of beer into the lake. I sank down, then rocketed myself up into the air in order to catch the can as it nearly arched over my head. I landed with a loud splash that showed no mercy to the people around me. Soph shrieked while Seamus dodged the splash by ducking underwater. A little pointless if you asked me, but no one ever did.
Cracking open the can, I let the yeasty, sour liquid pour down my throat. I loved the burn almost as much as I loved the appreciative looks I received when I'd leapt from the water. "Perfect ten out of ten!" I announced to the groans of all those around me.
"It would've been perfect…" Soph replied, turning onto her back so she could look up at the night sky. There wasn't a cloud in sight and the stars stretched on for miles. On this clear of a night, it was so crowded with stars the sky looked milky in places. "…if you hadn't lost your shorts."
Sure enough, floating beside me like a turd in the wind were my boxers. I thought I felt a little freer. I scooped them out of the water, hanging them on my index finger. "Well this night just got a lot more exciting," I announced, receiving many whoops and whoos in reply. Cam had gathered a pretty sizable group tonight, promising they could all be part of an epic prank at Morningwood Lake.
"Those bottoms are mine!" Cam yelled. I flung them toward him, slingshot style, and he caught them as easily as I'd caught the beer. Being a shifter with enhanced speed and agility came in handy pretty often. He draped them over his head like a floppy hat, making everyone around him laugh.
I found myself laughing with them, caught up with the emotion of the night. These days, moments like this were my only chance to relax and unwind. I found Cam's face and he winked, making me warm and wonder if there wasn't more to his words. But I wasn't a bottom—another word for omega in Morningwood, even though omegas weren't required to bottom all the time—I was an alpha!
At least, I thought so.
Still, I thought of the day that Cam came into my life as one of my luckiest days. Right after New Year's, I'd been dying of boredom and all of my friends were finding their mates. All except Soph who was so busy with college and track most of the time that nights like tonight were far too infrequent. My dads had tried to tell me it was because my friends were growing up, becoming the adults they were meant to be and that I should consider joining them.
I didn't know how to tell them that I didn't know how.
I tipped my head back, swallowing the rest of the beer along with my troubled thoughts. I had to worry about all of that every other second of the day, I wasn't going to let it ruin right now. Crushing the can in one hand, I threw it back to shore while hollering for someone to toss me another bottle of bubble bath. A fin appeared in the water, slicing through the black surface like a scene from a horror movie as Jake—great white shark shifter—swam to me with a bottle of bubble bath in his jagged teeth.
Everyone moved out of Jake's way looking like the laziest extras in Jaws. Jake released the bottle as he swam by and I plucked it from the water. Pearlescent pink fluid ran down my hand and wrist, leaking out from the teeth holes in the plastic.
"Dude!" I popped the top off the bubble bath and squirted it into the water around me, taking extra care to rinse off.
When Cam had texted saying he had an idea for a bubbles and beer party, I'd been psyched. It seemed like the texts from my other friends—if I even got texts from my other friends—were all about brunches and baby showers. Harris had called the other week to ask if I wanted to go antiquing with him and Dean Boothe—who kept trying to get us to call him Andrew, or Mr. Boothe, but both were just too weird. Needless to say, I'd declined the invite. I had a hunch Harris had only asked because my dads had begged him too anyway.
I needed more excitement in my life and Cam's plan for the night was simple but perfect: get a few cases of bubbles, a few cases of beer, face the frigid lake waters and see what happened. So far, my skin was so numb I couldn't feel the cold, we were almost through all the cases of bubble bath, and halfway through the beer.
In the distance, an owl screeched.
Cam put his hands out, shushing the crowd. "Hold on, that's the sig—" Hiccup. "Signal."
Every head, including mine, turned his direction. Christine Echo—bat shifter—was the first to curse. The next moment, her clothes fluttered to the ground and she emerged in her bat form, flapping her wings to take her higher into the sky.
My hearing wasn't as good as most of those around me but by the way the more auditorily sensitive shifters around me were fleeing, it was safe to say, our party was about to get crashed.
And yet, I felt no fear. Only excitement.
You're sick, Dusty. Or maybe just a glutton for punishment.
"Dusty, c'mon, it's the Sheriff!" Cam called from the bank. He stretched his hand out toward me, his face devoid of his usual smirk.
"Soph, babe, you gotta swim," I called back to her.
All around us teens and those just a bit older, like Soph, Cam and I, were transforming into their animals. Jake simply swam away to the other side of the large lake while the bird shifters, like Seamus, all took to the sky. Lights of red and blue swirled through the trees throwing their own private rave, but the man behind those lights couldn't have been further from a carefree partier.
Sheriff Joseph.
My legs tingled, and I tried to convince myself that it was because I was trying to swim so quickly, waking up nerve endings that had fallen asleep.
I paused to check on Soph's progress. If anything, she was farther behind me.
"Your mother is going to kill you and then me," I yelled to her. She understood what it was like to have parents that said they wanted to let go and watch you grow, while also never letting go. If Sophie Weaves was delivered to her parent's doorstep tonight in the custody of the Morningwood Sheriff, she'd be locked up for life—likely in some woven cage that her parents made with their own ass strings. It didn't matter that she was nineteen, almost twenty, any more than it mattered that I had just turned twenty and therefore no longer had the word teen attached to any part of me.
I checked back in with Cam at the shore, but when I saw his desperation, I waved him off. "It's okay, go! I'll be right behind with Soph." Everyone else had made it out of the lake, into the lake, or into the sky. It was just the three of us left and as I watched Cam give me one last wink before transforming into his horse and running the opposite direction in the woods, I mentally dropped that number to two.
I turned around and when I was close enough, grabbed Soph's hand to haul her onto my back. I wasn't in my horse form, but I could still swim faster than her this way. She clutched her legs around my middle while I burst into a forward stroke.
"I touched your penis!" she shrieked, jerking her foot away so quickly she kneed me in the jaw. "No! I'm sorry! Save yourself!"
Water filled my lungs when I hissed with pain and I began to cough. "Shift, you idiot," I tried to say between coughs. The lights were brighter now, and I thought I'd heard a door open before closing.
The moment I hit the shore, Sophie shifted and used all eight of her legs to scurry off into the woods. I lay there, panting in the sand and dirt for a second before lifting my body with my upper arms and jumping to my feet—
Just in time for the Sheriff to break through the tree line and shine his massively bright light on my completely naked body.
I squinted, closing one eye while blocking the floodlight with my hand. "Sheriff Joseph, what a surprise," I said, trying to sound sure of myself, but this was too much for even me to keep cool and my words came out more breathy than anything else.
I heard his disapproving sigh and immediately forced every disgusting thought I could conjure into my head to keep from growing hard. Sheriff Joseph was a lost cause for me, a crush I needed to kill, and yet…
"Why do I keep finding you in varying stages of undressed?" the Sheriff replied. He had a rich voice, like whiskey in an old western song. He didn't have a southern twang, but sometimes, when I let myself think about him and all the stuff I wanted to do with him, I would imagine he did. A country accent would suit a staunch, upright guy like him nicely.
"I didn't want to mention this, since you're obviously a never nude but—"
"I'm a what?" the Sheriff asked, his tone a mixture between gruff and curious. I had to be making up the curious part though since all the Sheriff ever seemed to be around me was annoyed.
"Your condition?" I prompted, lowering my voice like I was afraid of someone else hearing us. "The one that keeps you from getting naked?"
"I get naked," the Sheriff replied.
I grinned and tried to hide it behind my hand. I had always been self-conscious of my mouth. And, no, not because I never stopped talking, but because it was so big. Sometimes it felt like half of my face was just mouth and when I smiled, it got that much worse. "Truth is in the eye of the beholder."
The Sheriff sighed again—it was his favorite expression in my presence—and clicked off his flashlight, forcing my eyes to slowly adjust to the partial darkness. The moon still shone brightly overhead, and his cop car lights swirled silently behind him. "That isn't how the saying goes, Mr. Bridle. You don't have to take the whole wrap for this, you know. I've counted at least twenty empty beer cans, and several more unopened." He shone his light on the stack of beers by one of the trees. "You clearly weren't out here by yourself while you all… what were you all doing?"
"Trying to fill the lake with bubble," I admitted, my bottom lip began to tremble from standing naked and wet in the cold. The next second, Sheriff Joseph handed me one of those wool blankets that you always see people wearing in aftermath pictures.
"That's ridiculous. You would need thousands of gallons of bubble bath. You have enough here to maybe fill a hot tub."
"No one said it was a good plan," I mumbled, bringing the blanket tighter around my front. I dipped my face, giving it a low-key sniff. Of course it smelled like the man, like cedar and citrus. Did he spend his time making fresh squeezed orange juice in the woods? I wouldn't doubt it. Though, thinking that Sheriff Joseph did anything for fun was against everything I knew of the man.
My eyes had almost adjusted to normal so I could see the Sheriff better. It wasn't as if I didn't have his face memorized already. He was handsome in a lame Disney prince sort of way. He had tanned skin, always a shade darker than everyone else no matter the time of year and golden hair—the color matching his lion counterpart almost exactly. His face was square and sturdy with defined cheekbones and a chiseled jaw that made the framework for a prominent chin complete with one of those ridiculous dimples at the end. He was gorgeous but in a wholesome sort of way that I should have rebelled against.
Hell, I was rebelling against it. Because the sad fact was, ever since volunteering at the jail for penitence after making some truly tragic mistakes—way worse than trying to bring bubble joy and whimsy to this boring town—I'd realized how head over heels I was for the much older man. His age would be one thing, an issue I'd be happy to look past, but I couldn't look past the way he never gave me the time of day. Unless…
I bent down to pick up one of the empty cans but discovered the can was yet unopened. Cracking the top, I gestured toward the Sheriff. "You don't mind?"
"You're twenty, I mind."
"This is Morningwood, not the normie world, officer," I retorted, bringing the can slowly to my lips.
I felt the heat of his body, stark against my lake-frozen skin. "I mind," he repeated softly as he reached for the can. He was careful not to touch my hand, grabbing it by the top to take it away. After pouring it into the woods—litterer—he turned back to me. "Find your clothes, Bridle. Clean up this mess and then I'm delivering you to your parents."
I groaned and then wished I hadn't. No wonder the Sheriff wouldn't look at me like the man I was.
"Unless you know a few names of people who should be here to help you?" he taunted.
I lifted my chin. "Snitches get stitches."
Again, he was in my bubble, too close—no such thing—for comfort. "Did someone threaten you?" he asked, his voice dipping several octaves.
For a split second I wondered what he would do if I said yes. Then, I answered my own question. He would file an official police report and assign you a number. I shook my head. "It's a saying, Sheriff. It means I saw nothing and will say nothing." I crossed my arms over my chest forcing him to take a few steps back or else we would be touching. I may have been stupidly infatuated, but I wasn't about to get pushed around. I was a horse shifter—not just that, a Clydesdale! And I wasn't going to pretend to be timid for anyone.
"It doesn't have to be like this, Dusty," he said then, much more quietly. "In fact, it wasn't this way until about two months ago. You barely got into trouble, and now, I'm catching you every other week. If something has happened, if someone is making you—"
"No one is making me do anything." It was my turn to use my tough guy voice. "I'll find my clothes and clean up."
I could tell he wasn't happy, but that was simply too bad.
He didn't speak while I rummaged around the leftover piles for my clothing. I wasn't sure where my boxers were, but I found my jeans and slipped them on. I never found my shirt, or hoodie, but Cam had left his black leather jacket behind, so I slipped that over my shoulders. I didn't want to return the blanket Joseph had given me but that was just more of a reason why I should, so I took it off and bunched it up. "Thanks for this," I muttered, setting it down on a log while I got busy gathering the empty soap bottles and beer cans.
"What about this stuff?" I asked, gesturing to the leftover cases.
"I'll donate it to the firehouse," the Sheriff replied.
"Poor Cam," I muttered. He'd brought all the beer.
"Who?" Sheriff Joseph asked keenly.
"No one," I said louder. "Isn't that illegal? Don't you have to take it in as evidence?"
"I would, if I were arresting anyone or charging anyone of anything. But, we can't keep doing this, Dusty. You already have more community service hours than you'll be able to feasibly finish before you graduate. And I don't want to put you in another cell, but I will. It's odd, son. You were always such a good kid, but recently, it's like you're making up for lost time. Is it this Cam? Is he influencing you?"
I tied up the last trash bag—courtesy of everyone's favorite Sheriff—and bent down to haul the bags and the cases back to his cruiser. After, I stood next to his car, my chin lifted again to indicate my obstinate silence.
"Fine," he snapped, jerking the bags out of my grasp and tossing them into the trunk.
My heart fluttered making me wonder if I really was broken. Why did I like his anger so much? I was a goof to everyone else, I knew that. Dusty was always just the class clown—great now I was thinking of myself in the third person.
But I didn't always want to be just a goof and I wasn't going to tell on Cam, even if it got me out of trouble. Not only was he a fellow horse shifter, but he was new in town, a recent transfer from another shifter town somewhere on the east coast called Dix Wallow. He claimed that town was as lame as Morningwood, which always stung because I really did like Morningwood—despite the dumb ass name. I just wished I knew where my place was.
And the main reason why I wasn't going to tell on Cam was because these days, he seemed like the only person who liked having me around. In fact, sometimes, he out-pranked even me.
"Get in," the Sheriff ordered, slipping into the driver seat.
Weren't cops supposed to help you into the car? I couldn't even get him to do that.
"My parents aren't home," I started to say as I slid in the passenger seat. If he wasn't going to put me in the backseat behind the bars, I wasn't going to put myself there.
I shut the door and strapped on my seatbelt while the Sheriff just sat there. When I finally looked over, he was seething.
And I loved it.
"Do you want to try that again, Mr. Bridle?" he asked quietly.
"Try what?"
He grabbed the steering wheel tightly despite the fact that he hadn't yet started the engine. "Lying to me."
"I wasn't—"
"Dusty," he said my name, but it didn't sound like just my name. It sounded like a threat but also like a promise. A promise to do what? Punish me for lying? Would he put me in the back seat? I didn't mind, as long as he wanted to go back there with me.
And yet, something inside of me longed to bend to his will, to listen and obey. I didn't like that part of me because it was confusing. Alphas weren't supposed to be swayed as easily as I was around Sheriff Joseph. "Fine. They are home, but if you bring me back with the siren blaring it's just going to stress them out. They're already on edge because of the new baby and—"
"How is he doing?" he asked, sounding authentically curious.
"Dennis is doing what newborns do, I guess," I replied with a shrug. It was only a little weird to go from being an only child to an older brother at twenty. "I mean… he's a lot of trouble and my dads just started getting him to sleep for some of the night so if you bring me back—"
"Okay, okay," the Sheriff said, waving my words away. And, was that a smirk I spotted? No. It was gone as quickly as I thought I'd spotted it. "You know, if you stopped getting in trouble, you wouldn't have to worry so much about stressing them out."
I leaned back, settling into the passenger seat and readjusting the seatbelt over my jacket. "What's the fun in that?" I asked, adding a shrug that I hoped conveyed nonchalance. "And I could if I wanted to. I promise, mister, I can stop anytime."
That was when the Sheriff laughed. An actual, open mouth, smiley eyes laugh.
I forgot how to breathe.
"If you managed to stay out of my cuffs for two weeks, I would walk around Morningwood in a leprechaun costume."
I tried picturing the staunch figure dressed down in green, a top hat and a sack of gold at his side. "Not that I'm complaining, but why a leprechaun?"
"It's the next holiday," he replied.
This was as close to goofing around as I'd ever seen the man, so my reply was quick. "Deal."
Sheriff Joseph sobered as he pulled out onto the road, his brief moment of merriment long forgotten. "I'm serious about naming names, Dusty. We can't have you guys out here causing trouble. I got three calls about your little party tonight."
"Bunch of rats," I mumbled.
"No, it was Trent, he's a trout—"
"Figure of speech."
"Well, all that I've said still stands. How about we start with the owner of that jacket you're wearing, though I have an idea."
There was more growl to his words than there had been previously and although I wanted to lean over and make him growl again, I slunk away, burying my face behind the collar of Cam's jacket. It smelled like him, like hay and molasses and a little something extra that might've been Mountain Dew. "You might as well give up. I'm not going to tell you anything. One, as I've said, I am not a snitch and two, I might have something going with this jacket's owner and I don't want to ruin it."
"Oh?" the Sheriff asked casually, but his hands tightened to white knuckles on the steering wheel.
"Yes," I said, gaining momentum. I didn't know if the Sheriff had picked up on my ill-formed crush, but I wasn't going to seem desperate in front of him. "He's fun and actually seems to like being around me instead of treating it like a chore, or something that's been court appointed," I added so he knew that I counted him firmly in the other category.
"Is that what these nights are to you? Having fun with your new boyfriend?" His words came out clipped, like he couldn't be bothered to speak them clearly, or even continue with this conversation.
"It was, till you ruined it," I replied, my anger rising. And why was I angry? I was the one sort of lying after all. Was it because I wasn't getting the reaction that I wanted? "Maybe next time you can show up just a half hour later, so I have time to seal the deal." I sat back and looked out my window watching the trees thin. I spotted a street light up ahead and despite the tone in the car my heart lurched. I had minutes left, if he drove slowly.
We came to a stop sign that he breezed through.
I jerked my face in his direction, but he kept his eyes on the road. I noticed his pulse beating in his clenched jaw. That upset to be around me?
He turned up the street to Barnyard Court, the road I lived on along with all the farming and cattle shifters. We didn't have to be segregated like we were, it just seemed to work best. Every house on Barnyard Court had its own field in the back, perfect for lazy afternoons spent grazing.
My brain went into overdrive, firing off ideas of how to prolong my time in the car like fireworks exploding during a Fourth of July show. By the time he parked at the end of the cul-de-sac, I still had no idea and my panic to stay was quickly being replaced with anger. I spotted my house at the very end. All the lights were off except the front porch and the nursery light upstairs. That meant at least one of my dads was awake, but likely not in any shape to care if or when I got home.
Sheriff Joseph was so oblivious to me outside of my role as a troublemaker, I wanted to hurt him like how I hurt. I unbuckled my belt and opened the door, causing the dome light to turn on. The Sheriff's normally golden gaze was dark.
"Yeah, so, thanks. And like I said, try to hold back a little longer at the next party, I'm smooth, but I still need time to work my moves."
"There won't be another party, Dusty," the Sheriff replied darkly.
The hair on my nape prickled against his tone but I tried not to let it show. "Of course not. Night." I got out and shut the door. As I walked to my porch, I felt his eyes on my backside. Would it be weird if I tried to saunter? With my luck, I would just end up falling over.
Still, when I got to my door and the Sheriff was still there, I turned and slowly reached into my jacket pocket, pulling out the full, unopened can of beer I'd felt there when I put it on. I cracked it open, smiled at the cruiser's windshield since I couldn't see inside, and took a sip. I imagined the Sheriff's hands tightening on the steering wheel.
Did they tighten like that when he grabbed a lover? Did he use that same dark tone in the bedroom, the one that brooked no disobedience but somehow made me want to do the exact opposite? My stomach clenched, but it had nothing to do with the alcohol I'd consumed.
Deflated, I opened the door, slamming it as loudly as I dared behind me—which ended up being not loud at all.
Outside, Sheriff Joseph drove away, his tires squealing in his haste to escape from my presence.
"Dust?" my dad called from the top of the stairs. He bounced on the balls of his feet with Dennis propped against his shoulder as he patted his bottom.
"I'm here, I'm home," I said softly, hiding the can behind my back.
"Try not to make too much noise, Dennis should go down for a few more hours," he said, never descending the stairs.
"Yeah, no problem. I'm just gonna grab some food and go to bed." I waited to hear his footsteps retreating, but there was only silence.
"Dust? Did something happen tonight?" he asked with a tired edge.
How did I tell him? How did I describe the way it felt to realize the man I wanted would have nothing to do with me? That knowledge felt like it was slowly sinking into my bones, etching into the hard surfaces so that when I died and dried up, the message would be easily readable:
Sheriff Joseph wants nothing to do with you.
"Nope, everything is fine. Love you, goodnight." I didn't wait for his reply, I wasn't sure if he even gave one. He hadn't been worried about me, just about the possibility that I'd disgraced them both again by coming home in the back seat of a cruiser again. Loophole, it was the front seat this time.
I poured the rest of the beer down the sink, buried the can at the bottom of the recycling bin and disappeared into my room. Taking off my jacket, I hung it on my desk chair and then flopped down on my bed, facing the ceiling.
"Give it up, Dust," I told my ceiling.
It was about time I forgot my wild fantasies.
Of Secrets and Wolves by Alice Winters
Chapter One
ROWAN
“If the convicts are anywhere, it’d be there,” Nathan Scott says with a nod, like he knows everything. The issue is, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t. This is only the second time I’ve worked with him and I’m positive about this.
Hill, the local sheriff, rubs the back of his neck, clearly a bit uncertain about this fact. Three days ago, two convicts escaped a prison about twenty miles from here. To my understanding, the two who escaped managed to slip past the guards and make off into the night—which was easy for them since the prison is nearly surrounded by a national forest. Multiple search crews have been unable to track them down using any means necessary, which is why I was called in.
I’m not part of the police but I worked for years in the military and have gotten a reputation for my ability to track, so I work as an on-call tracker for local police. What I didn’t imagine is that I’d ever be pulled five hours from my home and sent out to track some convicts. I would enjoy tracking out in the gorgeous forest if Scott weren’t involved. Now I’m just reluctant to hear what he wants me to do.
Sheriff Hill is older than both Scott and me with graying hair and a round belly that tells me he doesn’t do too much around here. It’s not surprising. While his jurisdiction is wide, it’s not well populated—not much is with the mountainous and wooded range. “You think they’re hiding in Winsford Village?” Sheriff Hill says uncertainly. “You know that’s pack run, right?”
Of course Scott assumed the pack was involved the moment he heard there was a pack-run village within fifty miles of the prison—he pointed his fingers at it and nothing could change his mind.
“We got a glimpse of the prisoners on a security cam about ten miles from Winsford Village; where else do you think they could be?” Scott asks, a bit sharply if I might add.
He’s a short-tempered man that prides himself on being in charge of the West County Tactical Tracking Team. The team specializes in tracking people within the state and surrounding areas, specifically armed or dangerous men. In this case, two convicts that escaped the prison. But currently, he can’t seem to think about much beyond the fact that he’s certain the fugitives are hiding out in a shifter village.
That leads me to question his tracking abilities which might be why I was called in.
Sheriff Hill waves to the rugged landscape around us. “They could literally be ten feet from us, and with the trees as thick as they are, you wouldn’t see them until you tripped over them. But I’ll take ya there. Follow me.”
Hill heads over to his sheriff’s car as Scott and I walk back to our own vehicles. I’d brought my truck and trailer with my horse Maze inside who will allow me to cover this rugged land that a four-wheeler or any other all-terrain vehicle couldn’t. In the passenger seat sits Talon, my tracking dog, a long-haired Belgian Tervuren. He has a black face that fades to mahogany before blending into a soft reddish-fawn on his rump. He’s a striking dog who is currently trying to see if he can fit his massive body through the three-inch crack in the window if he turns his head sideways far enough.
Once inside the truck, I follow the train of vehicles through a winding path and into a small village. The way Scott spoke, I assumed the village would be run down and poverty-stricken, but as we drive through the main road, which isn’t much of a road at all, there are small houses and businesses that line the street. Flowers in large pots are displayed throughout the village, making it seem welcoming. The moment I park and roll the window down a crack, Talon rushes it and stuffs his nose against it before breathing in the air.
I’m sure he can smell them. The place has to stink of shifters.
I push open my truck door and get out as Talon rushes to escape with me. He looks devastated when I shut the door and follow Scott over to where Sheriff Hill is getting out of his car.
“I asked their alpha to meet us and he said he’d be waiting in Dandy’s Diner,” Hill says as he motions to a small diner.
“We can take it from here,” Scott says.
Hill hesitates. “You want me to stay out here?” he asks, reasonably uncertain.
Scott waves him off like he couldn’t be bothered with him. “You can leave if you want. We’re good from here.”
I can tell Hill doesn’t like this idea much as he leans against his car door. “You don’t want to piss the alpha off.”
Scott grins at him. “Yeah? And what are they gonna do if I do? I got the whole damn law enforcement behind my back. We’ll handle it.”
Hill shrugs and I feel like that was simply a “Your funeral” in motion form. This is why I hate dealing with Scott. I’d dealt with him one other time and I’d be lying if I said the thought of giving him a gentle push off into the river never crossed my mind. It was a fast river too, plenty of rapids that could just carry him and his condescending attitude off.
“Oh my goodness, aren’t you the sweetest little thing?”
I turn to see a young man’s body smashed up against my passenger window as he gleefully stares at Talon.
Talon, the ferocious dog he is, is wiggling as his tail whaps back and forth. I’m not close enough to tell if the young man is a shifter or not, but the way he’s melting over the dog is a bit much.
“Oh, your little tongue!” he exclaims.
Scott looks over at the young man and narrows his eyes. “They’re all so fucking weird. You better make sure that truck’s locked up. Who knows what he’s trying to steal.”
I would say that Talon would protect everything I have in there, but at the moment, it looks like Talon would give up his life just for a belly rub. “It’s fine,” I say.
Scott, on the other hand, doesn’t think it’s fine. “Is that your truck?” he shouts at the man. “Get your fucking hands off it.”
The young man instantly stops smiling before peeking around my truck with the most vibrant amber eyes, instantly answering my question of whether or not he’s human. “Are… are you talking to me?”
“Who else would I be talking to?” Scott asks.
The man looks to be in his late twenties with black hair that is striking against his pale skin and amber eyes. I find myself instantly attracted to him, even though he’s clearly a shifter and I want nothing to do with him.
“Is… this your dog? I pity the poor thing if it is. No wonder why it loves me if it has to deal with your rancid attitude. You poor soul,” he says to Talon.
Scott pulls out his badge, which he seems to think is an appropriate response to someone fawning over a dog. “Do you want to try speaking to me again, mongrel?” he asks, even though it’s not like he’s wielding a police badge.
The shifter grins at him which seems to piss Scott off more. “I am truly sorry I have offended you. I will go sniff a tree… chase a squirrel… maybe even piss on your tires.”
“It’s my truck. Please don’t piss on the tires,” I pipe up.
“Ah…” The shifter points at the black car that’s Scott’s. “This one?”
I nod.
“Thank you,” he says.
“I will have you arrested if you take a step toward my car,” Scott growls.
“Let’s get this over with, we’re wasting time,” I say. If he’d just let me start tracking, I could already be on the convicts’ trail. Instead, this is where I was lucky enough to end up.
Scott storms into the diner and I grudgingly follow after him while wondering how a man in his late thirties already has so much hate in his life.
The entire diner goes silent as we walk in even though more than half the booths are filled. They all turn to look at us and I realize at least half are shifters. They just have a look about them that tells me they’re not human.
A short man with uniquely golden-brown hair that has tips of black slowly walks up. It seems completely natural, making me wonder what kind of shifter he is. “G-Good afternoon. Welcome to Dandy’s Diner. I—”
“We’re meeting someone here. The alpha?” Scott interrupts.
“Ah, okay.” The shifter scrutinizes us with narrowed eyes before he looks around and points at an empty booth in the corner. “Please have a seat. He should be here shortly. And can I get you something to drink while you wait? We have fresh lem—”
“I don’t want anything you’re serving,” Scott says stubbornly and I see the young man’s eyes narrow even more.
“I’ll take a lemonade,” I say, and the young man gives me a tight-lipped smile before scurrying off.
I sit down next to Scott who shudders. “They just give me the heebie-jeebies.”
The shifters, known for their exceptional hearing, most likely can hear him and will probably murder us before we’re done with this place.
The small shifter hurries back to us and slides a glass of water in front of Scott and the lemonade in front of me. “Would you like anything else?”
Scott shoos him off a moment before the shifter who’d been staring at my dog outside slides into the booth across from us.
“Oh, dear god,” Scott groans. “What the fuck do you want?”
The young man raises an eyebrow as I realize he’s even more attractive close up. He’s got this defiant look to him that seems to be pissing Scott off even more. “Me? Hmm… probably a dog biscuit or a bone. Why?”
“Fuck off, kid.”
“I… was under the impression you wanted to speak with me,” he says as he leans forward on his elbows. “Am I wrong?”
Scott seems to be annoyed he’s failing at bullying the shifter into backing off. “We want to speak to the alpha.”
“Correct. I’m alpha.”
Scott snorts and even I feel a bit amused by this. There’s no way this man’s alpha. He looks like a twig and while he’s not short, he couldn’t be over five foot nine and not at all threatening. He looks like he’d have trouble wrangling rabbits.
“Cute. Now let me speak to your alpha,” Scott says.
The man gives him a rather cocky look that seems to be pushing Scott further and further over the edge. “Uh-huh… because I’m not, right? Is it the clothes? The hair? What makes me not alpha enough for you?”
Scott is growing pissed and this guy needs to realize it before Scott does something he can’t undo. “Your alpha better show up shortly. I’m getting tired of wasting my time.”
The young man smirks. “Understood.”
Then he leaves. A few minutes later, a man comes out of the back who dwarfs me. He’s a good six foot seven with broad shoulders and muscles that leave his shirt with little room to breathe. He seems uncertain as he sits down and faces us.
“I see you finally decided to show,” Scott says. “I’m Nathan Scott and this is our tracker consultant, Rowan Sinclair. We’ve had two escaped convicts that you might have heard about if you guys have the luxury of TV out here. Do you guys even know what that is?”
The man seems confused. “TV?”
Scott shakes his head like he pities the man who I honestly think is just confused why Scott would think he doesn’t know what a TV is. “Anyway, we have reason to believe you’re illegally hiding them here.”
“Dude… why are you telling me? I’m just the cook,” he says, clearly confused. “I’m not even a shifter. I’m human, like you.”
Scott’s boiling point is horribly high at this juncture. “Then who in this godforsaken place is in charge?”
“Our alpha’s Quinn,” he says as he points to the man from before. He’s sitting at the counter talking to the unique-haired man who is laughing about something.
“You… You seriously let that twig of a man be alpha? What a joke,” Scott says.
The large man looks at Scott with wide eyes. “Quinn? Quinn’s fucking scary.”
I watch as Quinn the “fucking scary” blows his straw wrapper off and hits the smaller man in the side of the face with it before laughing.
“I’m terrified,” Scott says sarcastically before getting up and storming over to Quinn. “We’re positive you’re hiding the missing fugitives, and if you don’t hand them over, I’m going to get a warrant to search your entire pack.”
Quinn, as I now know he’s called, slowly turns to look at Scott. “First off, we are not shielding any fugitives; second, if you come onto my land and threaten me or any of my pack, you will pay. Now sit down like a civilized human and explain what’s going on, and just maybe I can help.”
Scott’s pissed, so I decide to step up to the task. “I’ve been hired to track down two people who escaped prison three days ago. There’s speculation that they came this way.”
“Ah, a rational human. A pleasure to meet you. I’ll ask around, but I have my doubts anyone would enter my land without my knowledge. What was your name?”
“Rowan Sinclair and this is Nathan Scott.”
“So Rowan and Nathan, got it,” he says, but before he can continue, Scott interrupts him.
“Call me Scott,” he says.
Quinn completely ignores Scott and keeps his attention on me. “You’re a tracker?”
“I am.”
“How about I assist? I’ll help you find the two escaped people, and in return you,” he says as he points at Scott, “never set foot on my land again. Now let’s go.”
Scott gives him a cold smile. “Well, how about we do that, then. The tracker’s already got one dog, what’s another?”
Quinn just smiles back at the man. “Woof,” he says before getting up and heading toward the door.
“I didn’t pay for my drink,” I say.
Quinn waves it off. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll cover it. I’ll cover anything to get the asshole out of my territory.”
He heads outside as I question why Scott would agree to Quinn helping. He seems to despise shifters, so why this? There has to be something going on for him to agree.
“Sinclair, your truck already smells like a dog, so I’m sure you won’t mind driving him.”
“Uh… okay,” I say, not sure why I have to, but I think even I would feel bad sending the shifter off with Scott.
“Put him back with the horse if you want.”
I ignore Scott and head to my truck that Quinn gets into. He lights right up when he sits down next to Talon.
Author and artist Jordan Castillo Price writes paranormal sci-fi thrillers colored by her time in the Midwest, from inner city Chicago, to various cities across southern Wisconsin. She’s recently settled in a 1910 Cape Cod near Lake Michigan with tons of character and a plethora of bizarre spiders. Her influences include Ouija boards, Return of the Living Dead, “light as a feather, stiff as a board,” girls with tattoos and boys in eyeliner.
Jordan is best known as the author of the PsyCop series, an unfolding tale of paranormal mystery and suspense starring Victor Bayne, a gay medium who’s plagued by ghostly visitations. And her quirky, sweet, magical series The ABCs of Spellcraft is sure to make you smile.
New York Times Bestselling author Jocelynn Drake loves a good story, whether she is reading it or writing one of her own. Over the years, her stories have allowed her to explore space, talk to dragons, dodge bullets with assassins, hang with vampires, and fall in love again and again.
This former Kentucky girl has moved up, down, and across the U.S. with her husband. Recently, they’ve settled near the Rockies.
When she is not hammering away at her keyboard or curled up with a book, she can be found walking her dog Ace, or playing video games. She loves Bruce Wayne, Ezio Auditore, travel, tattoos, explosions, and fast cars.
She is the author of the urban fantasy series: The Dark Days series and the Asylum Tales. She has recently completed a gay romantic suspense series called The Exit Strategy about two assassins falling in love and trying to create a life together, as well as a MM paranormal romance series featuring a family of vampires.
She has co-authored with Rinda Elliot the following series: Unbreakable Bonds, Ward Security, Pineapple Grove, and the Weavers Circle. She has also co-authored with AJ Sherwood the Scales 'N Spells dragon series.
Chloe Archer currently calls the arctic wilds of Minnesota home but has spent much of her life abroad in places like Montreal, Edinburgh, and Tokyo. One day she hopes to live somewhere sunny and warm. She loves to travel, eat spicy food, and geek out about her fandoms. In her spare time (Ha! What’s that?) she’s an avid reader with far too many books and not enough bookcases, a wannabe tea and coffee connoisseur, and a karaoke fanatic. When she’s not making herself laugh out loud while writing adorkable gay rom-coms, she can be found walking her two Yorkies (Teddy and Jasper,) trying to finish that blanket she’s been knitting for five years or spending time with friends and family.
Kiki Burrelli lives in the Pacific Northwest with the bears and raccoons. She dreams of owning a pack of goats that she can cuddle and dress in form-fitting sweaters. Kiki loves writing and reading and is always chasing that next character that will make her insides shiver. Consider getting to know Kiki at her website, on Facebook, or send her an email: kikiburrelli@gmail.com.
Alice Winters started writing stories as soon as she was old enough to turn her ideas into written words. She loves writing a variety of things from romance and comedy to action. She also enjoys reading, horseback riding, and spending time with her pets.
Jordan Castillo Price
Jocelynn Drake
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EMAIL: jocelynn.drake@gmail.com
Chloe Archer
Kiki Burrelli
GhosTV by Jordan Castillo Price
I Destroyed the Elf Prince's Harem by Jocelynn Drake
It's Not Unusual To Be Loved by an Alien by Chloe Archer
Of Secrets and Wolves by Alice Winters
