Tempting the Flesh: First Chapter

Still not sure if you want to purchase Tempting the Flesh at the special price of $0.99?  Here is the first chapter:

You can preorder the novel, released August here.

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Chapter 1

Elizabeth Grant had never been and never would ever be a smoker, but there were times when she wished she was because her job was extremely stressful.  It wasn’t so much of what she actually did, but the waiting that did her in.  She liked to be active, to have something to do. She was currently sitting at an outdoor café, sipping a glass of strawberry lemonade, her forest green eyes hidden behind a chic pair of dark sunglasses. She was wearing tight black pants with knee high boots over them, and a black tank top underneath a denim jacket. Her wavy blonde hair tumbled down her shoulders, and she ran her fingers through the untamable strands, staring at her cell phone, as if that could make it would ring faster. But alas, she was having no such luck.

Elizabeth – Lizzie, she preferred - worked for the Nocturnal Defense Society, which was a government agency that specialized in maintaining and enforcing equality between humans, vampires, and werewolves. Her job was that of an assassin, and she was damn good at it. When her boss needed her to take out a high profile leader, she did it in under twenty-four hours. Whether it was someone from humanity, werewolf society, or vampire society – it didn't matter. Whatever they needed, she did it, and usually, without question.  It was her job, after all; it paid the bills.

In her occupation, she only had a couple of ground rules that were important when handling any particular case: First and foremost, those she did take out had to be guilty. None of the reasonable doubt bullshit; there had to be irrefutable evidence against any particular target. Secondly, she liked to work alone. She didn't want to be responsible for somebody else, and she didn't want to grow attached to someone who, in all likelihood, was going to die from this job. The only reason Lizzie survived so long in this area of business was because she was smart and fast. She showed no weakness, and she wanted to keep it that way. And finally, her last rule whenever she accepted a job was to let her handle the details her way. If they wanted to do it a certain way, they could hire someone else to do it, or they could do it themselves. Just give her the target and get out of her way. She would handle the rest.

Lizzie started tapping the heel of her right foot so it clacked against the pavement beneath her and threw her eyes over to her phone once more. "Come on," she murmured under her breath. "Come on, come on, come on…"

Her thoughts drifted once again, as her ears continued to meet the hollow sound of silence.  Little girls didn’t typically dream of growing up to be assassins, but somehow, Lizzie always knew that that was what she wanted to do. She was raised by her mother Carmen, who, in her day, was the NDS' top assassin, outranking even the men. Of course, this meant that her mother took extra ribbing and the sexism that went along with any female accomplishment, as well as tons of competition from her fellow assassins, but she didn't mind. Lizzie had no idea who her father was, but she never really cared and Carmen never offered any kind of information.  In fact, her mother took that secret to the grave with her.

When Lizzie was fourteen, her mother died on the field, a bullet straight between the eyes. Nobody knew how this was possible, as Carmen was shot from a close range, when she was smarter than letting herself get caught, let alone killed. After her untimely death, there was also the problem of Carmen's daughter. Who would look after her? Ultimately, a single mother named Kathleen who had a daughter of her own and worked in the research department of NDS took her in.  From that point forward, Lizzie was determined to become an assassin, and did whatever it took in order to accomplish her goal.  She started running every day and developed a workout regimen to increase her strength, her core, and her balance.  She started eating better, though she never denied herself a sweet indulgence every once in a while.  And she sacrificed the majority of her social life in order to research and study.

Two years later, she was taking classes with eighteen year olds, training with the best people in her desired department, and studying her ass off. When one wanted to join the NDS, no matter what the field, schooling was required, especially multiple classes in Sociology. The Nocturnal Defense Society protected humanity against those that were nocturnal – vampires and werewolves more specifically. The different species lived together in Somerset, and while the law stated that everyone was equal, each species thought that they were superior. Because humans were weakest of the species, it was decided that the NDS would be created to ensure that they wouldn't be taken advantage of or bullied, but it also served as an equalizer. Members of each species worked side by side with the goal that one day, society would deem that they were all equal and that the NDS was no longer necessary.

At twenty-one, Lizzie became the youngest assassin on a team of four. For the first year, her teammates didn't trust her due to her age. They thought that the only reason she was there was because of who her mother was. But sooner rather than later, she won their trust and started to increase in rank. It wasn't until her partner was killed right in front of her did she finally decide to go solo. Many people in her unit thought she was just being snobby, but she didn't care. No one would understand what she had experienced and she didn't want to go through it again.

Though Lizzie was now twenty-three and living on her own, she was still incredibly close to Kathleen Simmons, the woman who had taken her in years ago. In fact, Lizzie's best friend was Kathleen's daughter, Rachel, who excelled at researching, just like her mother. Lizzie was continuously grateful she never had to worry about Rachel because she was rarely, if ever, in the field and therefore, it was highly doubtful she would ever be harmed in any way.

A chirp caused her thoughts to suddenly disappear, and she glanced down at her phone resting on the surface of the table. An unknown number popped up on her caller identification, and her lips quirked up. "Finally," she muttered before flipping open the phone and placing it over her ear. "Grant," she greeted in her no-nonsense tone she usually used while on the clock.

"Good afternoon, Miss Grant," a familiar, articulate voice on the other end of the line greeted. His voice was breathy and formal and slightly odd when compared to others, but he had a natural tone of authority imbedded in his speech, and though it wasn't quite intimidating, it commanded respect.

"Good afternoon, Jackson," Lizzie said with a mischievous glint in her eyes. She knew how much her boss detested when she called him simply by his last name without any form of Mister or Sir beforehand. Luckily, the two went way back, and as long as she wasn't addressing him this way in public or in front of other agents, he usually let her get away with it.

A heavy sigh filled the phone, and it was moment before Jackson said anything. "Yes, well, I've got you an assignment that you’ve no doubt been waiting for," he said almost dismissively but not in a callous way. He paused a moment, knowing that Lizzie was quite impatient, especially when it came to learning information about a client or a hit. She bit her bottom lip, trying to suppress the urge to reach through the phone and strangle him until he gave her what she wanted to know.

"Go on," she said, trying to keep the sharp edge out of her voice. Really, she was trying to work on patience, but it was so hard when she had a boss like Jackson who tried at every opportunity to take full advantage of her particular default.

She could practically hear Jackson smile through the phone and waited another moment before he finally decided to continue. "Are you familiar with the Dragulia family?" he asked her.

"You mean the vampire clan?" Lizzie asked, puzzled. "Aren't they royals in their culture?" She never had to take out a royal before and she highly doubted she would.  “The ones who live forty-five minutes by train into the wilderness on the east side of Somerset, completely opposite of Sterling’s pack?”

"They are," Jackson replied.

"Well, isn't it a little obvious taking out a royal?" She tilted her head slightly and slid her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "I mean, I don't even remember hearing that they've done anything to threaten humanity, but then again, it could be because no one trusts me with such information. You know, for your top assassin, everything's been pretty hush-hush when it comes to me. Why is that?"

Another sigh escaped, Lizzie could imagine him reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "You're getting off topic, Miss Grant," he said with slight exasperation. It would seem that he, too, had to work on his patience, except it only seemed challenged whenever he was around or was speaking to Lizzie. "And anyways, this isn't a hit."

She furrowed her brow as she took another sip of her lemonade. "I don't understand," she said. "I'm an assassin. Why would you be giving me a job that has nothing to do with killing someone?"

"It's not so much killing someone as it is protecting them," Jackson corrected. "I have just been informed that Nikolai Dragulia, the vampire next in line to claim the throne once his father retires from the position, has just been threatened. Apparently, there is a hit out for him in the vampire clan because a few people don't think he would make a good king. He has requested your presence personally in hopes that you would be his bodyguard until this whole thing blows over."

Lizzie's mouth dropped open and it took her a long moment before she finally responded. "Wait a minute," she said, still flabbergasted. "This guy wants me to babysit him? That's the job that's so important? You want me to babysit a royal? There is no way I'm going to waste my time with something like this. You can't be serious."

"Well, I am," Jackson said. "Money talks and it has spoken. So I suggest you pack in order to make your train."

Before she could argue some more, the line went dead.

It was times like these when Lizzie, if she had smoked, could have really used a cigarette.

Losing Myself in You: First Chapter

All right guys, so you've read the summary and have seen the book cover.  Ready to get a sneak peak at what's to come?  Here is the first chapter of Losing Myself in You!  As always, I'd love your take on the chapter in the comments.

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Chapter 1

 

For going on a new mission that involved one of the biggest werewolf packs in all of Somerset, Bridgette Barker was remarkably calm.  Currently, she sat in the back of a black Ferrari, driven by one of her associates, Clive Shereen, her ice-blue eyes glancing out the window as he briefed her on what this particular mission entailed.  Apparently, members high up in ranking in the Sterling pack were accused of embezzlement of various businesses they were associated with, as well as turning humans into werewolves without their consent. 

Bridgette worked for the NDS – Nocturnal Defense Society – a government agency that regulated equal treatment among humans, werewolves, and vampires.  She loved her job, especially when she brought someone – regardless of who that was and what race they were from – to justice.

“The target is Marcus Sterling,” he continued, causing Bridgette to rip her eyes away from the scenery that encased the outskirts of Somerset.  The trees cast unforgiving shadows in the darkness, and not even the glow from the moon could ease them up.

“The Alpha?” she asked, furrowing her brow together.

Clive gave her a mischievous grin.  “Ah, I see you are paying attention, my love,” he chided in what was supposed to be a charming English accent.  It was rich and clear, like a church bell or a car alarm. 

“Cut the crap, Shereen,” she said, in no mood for his flirting.  “I didn’t realize Sterling himself was up on these charges.”

Clive flipped through the sheets of paper in the manila folder currently residing in his lap.  He glanced over at Bridgette from his seat in the back and nodded his head, handing her a picture of the wolf in question.

“Apparently, he’s the one giving the orders,” their driver and Bridgette’s closes friend, Kendall Menton, said.

Bridgette reached over to the compartment embedded in the driver’s seat, and pulled down a lever that caused a flat tool case to spring down.  In it, there were various tools and contraptions, including a hammer, screwdriver, anything one might need to fix something when they were in a bind.  Clive liked to work with his hands – in more ways than one, he would keep saying with a wink – and always kept at least three different kits somewhere in his car.  He had the seats especially designed for this purpose.  To Bridgette, it came off as rather flamboyant, but every now and then, like tonight, it came in handy.  She grabbed a mini-flashlight and clicked it on so she could see the photos more closely.  Tugging on her bottom lip, her eyes took in the target.  On the bottom of the photo, a name was scrawled in Kendall's swirly handwriting: Marcus Sterling.  He stood in front of his grandiose manor, his hands clenched into fists at his side, as though he was trying to control his anger.   He appeared tall, probably a couple of inches past six feet, and he had incredibly broad shoulders. In fact, he was really strong, or, at least, looked as such.  He had thick, chestnut brown hair that was styled sort of like Elvis Presley's hair, except it was messier and lacked gel. His sideburns actually crawled down the side of his face until they reached the beginnings of his chin, where a deep imprint rested. His lips were thin, pulled into a scowl, and his nostrils were flared as his hazel eyes narrowed at something off screen.

What was he looking at? she silently wondered, twirling the end of her ponytail around her index finger.

He was wearing what appeared to be a white wife beater underneath a leather jacket with two thick yellow racing stripes heading horizontally across it. Over the wife beater and under the jacket was a brown vest, fitting snuggly on his broad frame. Jeans occupied the lower half of him, while a brown belt wrapped around his waist and interlocked with a golden belt buckle resembling those that were worn by cowboys from the eighteen hundreds. And finally, on his feet, looked to be very worn brown boots.

He looked… like a beast, Bridgette finally realized. Even though he was in the forest like any lumberjack might have been, it was easy to tell what his true origins were.  He looked wolfish, ready to pounce at the photographer.  He must not like taking pictures. 

Bridgette flipped to the next picture.  This one was older, taken from a different time.  The edges were turning yellow, and the corners were bent.  The picture was of a family painting, probably still in the Sterling family today.  Like vampires, werewolves were immortal.  However, a shot to the heart with a silver bullet would kill them instantly.  It wasn’t uncommon to find members of a pack who have lived in Somerset, since the town was founded in the early eighteenth century.  Judging by this photograph of a painting, Bridgette deduced that the Sterling family took shape around the same time as Somerset itself.

The painting was of four people – a husband, a wife, and two boys.  Bridgette could easily deduce who Marcus was, thanks to his unruly hair and the perpetual scowl on his face.  Next to him, a few inches shorter, was another boy, with auburn hair and clear, blue eyes.  Unlike Marcus, he looked much more formal, with an ability to hold himself like he belonged to a royal family.  And, being born into an Alpha family, he really was.  His shoulders were rolled back, his chin was tilted up, and he was looking the artist dead in the eye.  Bridgette had to refrain from flinching.

“His family?” she asked, looking over at Clive.

He nodded, though his black hair still somehow refrained from falling in his face.  “His brother, Gerard Sterling.  The Beta.”

“Is he part of this?”

“He left the pack at least seven years ago,” Kendall responded from the driver’s seat.  “Rumor has it that he didn’t like being second to his brother.”

“Why?  I thought that was wolf tradition, and all wolves respected it.”

“There has always been sibling rivalry between the two,” Clive said, taking the picture from Bridgette’s hand so he could look at it himself.  He let his fingertips brush her skin as he did so.  “They both fought in wars together, beginning with the American Revolution.  Gerard always outranked Marcus.”

“Just not where it mattered,” Bridgette guessed.

“Exactly.”  He handed the picture back to her.  “So he left on some mission of his own.  No one really knows why, but to answer your question, no, he’s not thought to be involved.”

“The only thing we know of him is that he’s very pro-wolf,” Kendall said, pushing the brakes gently to make a left turn down a dirt path.  “We have pictures of him at rallies promoting werewolfism as the right species, the one other species should aspire to be.”

“Good thing he’s not around, then,” Bridgette murmured.

“Exactly.”

“Parents?”  She turned to look at Clive.

“Killed by a hunter about a hundred years ago,” he explained.  “The guy thought he could make money on the mother’s fur – they were both wolves at the time – and killed her instantly with a silver bullet.  Father attacked him, got him pretty good, until the guy killed him too.”

Bridgette pressed her lips into a thin line.  The story almost reminded her of how her mother died.  A vampire had drained her when she was out shopping for groceries.  Bridgette had been eleven.  He just took her without asking, and then left her body there for everyone to see.  It was why she was so intent to be an NDS agent.  To extract justice in a world where vampires and werewolves roamed the earth, where humans weren’t at the top of the food chain anymore.  She wasn’t looking for revenge, per se, but she wanted to ensure such a thing was never allowed to happen again with repercussion.  The vamp had never been caught, either.

Bridgette was still bitter about it.

“We also want a Ryan Carlyle and a Brandon Simon,” Clive continued as he handed Bridgette more pictures.  “They’re the ringleaders of the embezzlement.  There’s a list of their various cohorts, too, but Carlyle, Simon, and Sterling are who we want.”

Bridgette nodded her head as her eyes skimmed the text, took in the information, processed it.  Clive continued to talk, but Bridgette’s mind was already planning the attack.  Her eyes went back to the window.  It was too dark to make out the forestry, which was a shame because it really was beautiful, especially in the winter covered in snow.  It was Bridgette’s favorite place to be, because the city tended to get overwhelming at times.  Now, it was intimidating, foreboding, warning Bridgette away from their intended destination.  Why, she couldn’t be sure.  She had always been a top agent, and wasn’t easily frightened.  But something about this mission in particular had her senses on high alert, like something life-altering was about to take place.

"We're here," Kendall announced in her usual, soft-spoken voice. She turned around to glance at Bridgette, her grey eyes pooling with concern. "Are you sure you're going to be all right, Bridge? This isn't some wolf, this is the Marcua Sterling."

If it had been anyone else voicing their concern, Bridgette would have been offended. But Kendall was her friend and was just looking out for her well-being.

"I'll be fine, Kendall," Bridgette assured her. "I'll have the team with me. I'll be okay."  She flashed a confident grin and Kendall seemed to relax a bit.

With that, she and Clive exited the car, leaving Kendall alone in the vehicle. Kendall was a driver, a transporter. She didn't exactly fight, but she provided transportation to and from a destination. She was the fastest driver Bridgette knew, and she trusted Kendall immensely.  Bridgette watched as Kendall drove away until the black car blended itself in with its environment.

When she was gone, Bridgette surveyed the square mansion with sharp eyes from her position.  She and Clive were still a ways away from the manor, but she knew the other two members of their team were already in position on the opposite side, doing their own sweep of the grounds.  It was necessary to do as much intel as possible before making their presence known, especially since werewolves had heightened senses.  She could hear someone stepping on tree branches as they circled the property – a guard no doubt.  And a lone owl pierced the night with its melancholy cry.  There were no trees directly surrounding the place, which allowed the moon to hang low and cast its light on the manor.  It was spooky, Bridgette realized, and a shiver slid down her spine. 

The manor was white with three stories. Thick pillars surrounded a wooden porch, and Bridgette noticed that every single window was closed. She cocked her head to the side, looking for any kind of entrance besides the door. If her mother was still alive, she probably would have reprimanded Bridgette for not fully appreciating the architecture of the house. If she had to guess, it was built in the early eighteen hundreds, maybe even earlier.

But it wasn't her place to guess. She needed to get this Marcus Sterling, and she needed to get him now.

Catalyst: First Chapter

Here is the first chapter of Catalyst!  You can purchase the entire novel for $2.99 here.

Chapter 1

How long had it been since she had seen him?  Since she touched him?  Since he touched her…?

Keirah Shepherd swept the stray strands of dark brown hair behind her left ear before grabbing her broom and placing it into a white bucket.  As she cleaned the hall, she gritted her teeth, trying her damndest to forget him.  It was the only reason why she agreed to attend this New Year’s party with her sister.  Her mother would be out with her friends – Judy’s first social outing since Keirah’s father left – and since Judy had kicked Andie out of the house, she would otherwise be home alone, and that would be the worst.  She needed to forget the way he looked at her with those enigmatic golden eyes of his.  She needed to forget the way he could slap her across the face in one moment, punishing her for something she didn’t realize she did wrong, and caress her in that same moment, apologizing with his unspoken tenderness.  She needed to forget that tenor voice that could clip words in half or draw them out; it didn’t seem to matter what he did to them.  People listened to him anyways.

But that was probably because he was Onyx City’s most notorious criminal mastermind, the very reason for deaths of numerous innocent citizens.  He captivated people because they were afraid of him, and instead of being offended, he decided not to let that fear go to waste.  Instead, he used it against them.  All of them.  Even her.  But in the time Keirah spent with him, she felt her fear of anything, really, slip away.  It wasn’t as though she had numbed everything out, but she just didn’t see the point of wasting time on an emotion that wasn’t going to help her, only hinder her.

She really wasn’t sure about anything now.  It almost felt like waking up from a dream she wasn’t quite sure about.  Was it a nightmare, or a fantasy?  Could dreams be a mixture of the two?  Life was.

“Are you going to talk today?” a voice asked from behind her.

Keirah bit her bottom lip and managed to refrain from rolling her brown eyes.  As usual, she didn’t respond to Chad’s inquiries.  Before her initial capture by the villain, she hadn’t really been social.  Friendly, yes, but not sociable.  Now she didn’t bother with people she didn’t like.  Sure, her classmates and colleagues at Abby Ward thought she was stuck up, too quiet, or just plain weird, but she didn’t care. 

She didn’t care.

This, of course, did not mean Keirah was ungrateful.  After she had to quit her internship at Dr. Hawkins’s renowned criminal psychologist practice thanks to her entanglement with Noir, Commissioner Jarrett got her a replacement internship at Abby Ward.  She knew he still felt guilty for what had happened to her, and even though many citizens believed she was incahoots with Noir, Bonnie to his Clyde, Jarrett still had this unwavering faith in her.

Which was why Keirah didn’t want to think about how she had felt about him.  She considered her feelings to be buried deep, hidden safely away from the world and herself.  People – including both her mother and Andie – believed she was plagued with Stockholm Syndrome.  She scoffed at the idea.  Keirah had studied Stolkholm Syndrome and was a firm believer that she was not experiencing any delusions with the man (because, he was, in fact, a man).  Maybe it had started out that way, but it grew into something deeper, something more.  She loved him, as hard as that was to believe. 

She frowned at the thought, annoyed with her heart for clenching together when musing about how she had felt, as in, past tense.  She dropped the heavy mop back into the bucket, accidentally spraying Chad and herself with water.

“Watch the uniform, Helen Keller,” he told her with obvious distaste, casting her a dark glare before going back to what he had been doing in the first place; staring at her ass while she moved the mop back and forth across tile that never seemed to ever get clean.

Uniform.  Right. 

Keirah herself didn’t give a shit about the uniform she had to wear.  It was one of those ugly, dark grey jumper suits that was way too big for her slim frame.  Her hair was always falling in her face, even if she styled it for a half an hour before hand, but she had to be careful when wiping the strands away.  Rubber gloves were a requirement, but she didn’t want the bacteria collecting on them to somehow get into her eyes.  On her feet were very worn Converses, and though they were comfortable, they didn’t really offer her any arch support.

Keirah didn’t like her internship, especially since it was janitorial work rather than criminological research, but she was thankful for it.  Despite everything she had been through, Onyx High still required she get a passing grade in her business class if she wanted to graduate in June.  Commissioner Jarrett got her this internship, even though Abby Ward didn’t offer them to high school students.  She had free reign of the ward, except for the fourth floor. Both he and the ward’s director, Caroline Abby, emphasized that her presence on the fourth floor was strictly forbidden, but to this day, Keirah didn’t know why.

The ward, like much of Onyx, was a corrupt place, but Caroline Abby really was in this line of work in order to rehabilitate those that were cast aside by society because of their wicked deeds.  She even offered jobs to those deemed most likely to successfully reintegrate back into society.

For the past month, this was how Keirah spent her days, cleaning the filth the inhabitants, the psychologists, and the guards would leave behind.  Instead of speaking to the patients or socializing with her colleagues, she spent her time daydreaming.  It was a pastime she had given up long ago in hopes that being more serious would help her get a job being a psychologist.  After the first month, it was easy to ignore the ribs and innuendos coming from both the patients and the guards.  Now, they reminded her of flies; they were annoying, but they didn’t make too much noise, and most of the time, could be ignored.

She had no idea where she was going nowadays.  She didn’t seem to have any long-term goals, and this bothered her because even when she was with the man, she all but oozed ambition.  Keirah wasn’t sure if she wanted to start dating, if she wanted to get married, have kids.  She didn’t even know if she could get a job that might lead to some sort of career because she didn’t know if she wanted to be a criminal psychologist anymore.  Hell, she didn’t know if she wanted to go to college, which was just silly.  She had wanted to go to the University of Onyx since she was seven, when she and her father watched one of the football games together one Saturday afternoon.  Andie had been out shopping with Mom so it was just the two of them.  But now…

“Hey,” Chad said, reaching out and pushing Keirah’s elbow in order to catch her attention.  She was so consumed in her thoughts that his simple touch caused her to under extend the mop and nearly slip on the wet tile.  Chad seemed amused by this because he chuckled, causing her to grumble silently under her breath.  But he wanted her attention for a reason, so when he stopped laughing, he said, “We gotta get up to the fourth floor, pronto.”

Keirah gave him an annoyed look.  “Why?” she asked, placing the mop in the bucket before placing her hand on her hip and leaning slightly on the wooden stick.

“She speaks!” Chad exclaimed in mock-surprise.  Suddenly, his pudgy face became dry once again before explaining.  “Fred called in sick and the orderlies want you to do the fourth floor before you leave tonight.” 

Keirah said nothing, but began to push the bucket towards the elevators with Chad following, muttering something about how she was being quiet now all of a sudden.  Like that was a surprise.

It was probably her fault that she didn’t remember Jarrett’s warning of not going up to the fourth floor.  Maybe she should have sensed a bout of foreboding, but she didn’t.  In fact, Keirah treated it like any other floor.

When the elevators released the two, Chad slipped in his identification card and then typed in a unique code that pertained to each patient.  13225.  Not that she was paying attention or anything, but Chad wasn’t exactly trying to hide it.  One advantage for being deemed a mute: people seemed to underestimate her.

Keirah’s fatal mistake, however, was looking into the cell before pulling her equipment in.  Standing there, arms handcuffed to his bedpost and staring at the door was a familiar set of gold eyes that still managed to make her feel as though she was nothing more than transparent.  She swallowed and immediately looked away, her focus on the bucket of dirty water.

The man smiled at this before smacking his lips together in his usual fashion.  “Well, well, well-ah,” he drawled in his normal dark velvet voice, keeping his eyes firmly on the back of the young woman in front of him.  “Look who we have herrre…”

Keirah could feel her whole body freeze at his words, and the hair that encompassed her body stood erect on their own accord.  She clenched her teeth, realizing she should have prepared herself better, even though she wasn’t quite sure whether or not those rumors about him being here were true.  She knew she should have been aware that she might encounter her former lover one way or another, especially now that she knew that he was locked in the very place that she worked.  Immediately, she scolded herself silently for allowing her defenses to be dropped at such an inopportune time.  But more importantly, she hated the way her body responded merely to the sound of his voice.

The dark velvet that broke through the silence and caused spark-filled tension to consume the atmosphere between them did not go unnoticed by the young woman.  How her body longed to be consumed by that voice, that mouth, those hands that were handcuffed to his bedpost.  Just the sound of his voice caused a soft ache to penetrate her pelvis, and she could already feel herself get wet.  If she looked at him again, she knew she would be doomed.

Instead, she forced her attention on her task at hand: cleaning up the patient’s cell.  Because that was all he was to her, just another patient.

You know that’s not true, another voice taunted from the back of her mind.  Any other patient couldn’t make you tremble with need and ooze desire the way he does and you know it.

If Keirah’s teeth weren’t clamped together, she no doubt would have told herself to shut up.  However, they were, and instead, she let out her frustration with herself with a heavy sigh from her long, upturned nose, and lifted the heavy mop out of the bucket with the intent on getting her job done as quickly as possible.

“Aw,” he continued, his gold eyes penetrating through her body and to the essence of her very soul.  To be honest, he was quite amused at how she was trying to ignore him, but he could tell her attempt was useless.  Commendable, maybe, but useless all the same.  “Don’t pretend like you don’t um… know me, sweet-tart,” he continued.  His scar crinkled around his left eye, and his chapped lips curled up into a predatorial smile, his teeth still stained a dull yellow.  “After all-ah we’ve been through…”  He let his voice trail off, trying to get some sort of reaction from her.  He frowned when he failed to do so, and instead, refocused his eyes on her body, simultaneously trying to gauge its reaction to him while scoping out what he had been missing the past eight months.

 “Shut up.”  Chad spat from the doorway, narrowing his brown eyes at the prisoner.  “There is no way that you could possibly know Elen, not even in your fucking imagination.”

Noir threw his head back and laughed at that, causing Keirah to jump slightly.  She had yet to get used to it, and some nights, it would be the last thing she heard before slipping into slumber.

How amusing this was to him.  He couldn’t have asked for a better show.

“Is that what they’re hum… calling you now… Keirah?”

The sound of her name on his lips caused her pelvis to squeeze involuntarily and she masked a whimper with a cough.  However, she couldn’t stop the telling flush as it started to invade her cheeks, and despite her adamant orders to herself not to, she glanced over her shoulder and locked eyes with Onyx’s most notorious criminal.  Upon seeing those brown orbs of hers, he smiled lazily, and then slicked his tongue over his lips.

Chad wasn’t exactly the brightest crayon in the box, but in his time at Underwood Mental Institution, he had learned to read body language.  Maybe he wasn’t an expert at it or anything, but he could definitely see that the two shared something that he wasn’t all aware of.  His eyes snapped over to Keirah, and narrowed dangerously in her direction.

“It was you?” he asked, suddenly recognizing her.  She had always come off as familiar to him, and now he knew why.  She was Noir’s accomplice.  “You were his little partner in crime?  You were that, that slut who stood by his side despite everything he’s done?”

From the corner of her eye, Keirah noticed Noir’s eyes snap over at Chad when he heard the guard call her a slut, and they bronzed as they took in the sight of him yelling at her.  A guttural growl emitted itself in the bowels of his throat, and he pulled his lips back to bare his teeth in an animal-like threat, scowling threateningly at the man. 

“You cold-hearted bitch!” Chad continued to say, completely ignoring Noir’s warning, his anger increasing with every word he said.  “You should be locked up in here with the rest of them, not free, out on the streets.”  He gritted his teeth together, his brown eyes molding into black as he looked at Keirah.  “You think you’ve seen pain?  I’ll show you pain!” 

Before Keirah or Noir could act, Chad stalked over to the young woman and grabbed her head into his hands.  Without warning, he slammed her head into the tile wall, causing pain to shoot through every fiber of her being.  She let out a pained yelp, but collapsed to the ground, overcome with dizziness.  Blinking a couple of times, Keirah tried to push herself up, doing her best to ignore just how badly she felt at that moment.  She had to get out of there before Chad did something with his uncontrollable temper he would later regret.

Chad, however, was not exactly finished with the woman.  Before she could get herself to stand, he reached down and yanked her up with her hair, causing another yelp to slide past her lips.  Though she was still dizzy and her head was still throbbing in pain, Keirah lifted her knee, and with as much strength as she possibly could, threw it into Chad’s groin area.  He cried out, immediately releasing his grip on her to aid his ailing nether region.

“Get under the bed hum… Now,” Noir ordered, his dangerous gaze still focused on the guard that could barely stand.

Keirah didn’t have to be told twice.  Noir was obviously the lesser of two evils at present and Chad seemed intent on continuing to hurt her, so as best as she could, managed to slide her body underneath the bunk bed that belonged to a sociopath.

“Get out here, Elen,” Chad said, his pale face now red due to Keirah’s infraction on his body.  He didn’t look, nor did he sound, too pleased with the young woman before him.  “Come on, you bitch, get up.  Crawl back out from underneath that bed and get up.”  His breath was ragged, and his hands were on his knees as he struggled to catch his breath.

“Don’t you uh, well don’t you worry, princess,” Noir drawled, tensing his body as though he was some sort of animal, preparing to attack his prey.  “If he wants you, he’ll uh… get you.”

The next moment still left Keirah thinking about what could have happened if Chad’s patience was still intact, if he wasn’t in so much pain, and if he wasn’t dangerously mad at her.  But he was all of those things.  In fact, Chad probably wasn’t thinking as rationally as he normally would because if he had been, he wouldn’t have placed himself in such a fatal position.  Because of this, Chad did what any other enraged man would have done in his position, and that was to lunge for her, currently curled up underneath the bed.

Noir smiled, knowing exactly what Chad was planning to do, and though an amused glint shimmered in his eyes, the smile itself did not quite meet them.  He reached up, coiling his fingers around the metal bed post, preparing himself for what he had known would come.  Just as Chad threw himself across the floor in order to get to Keirah, Noir gripped the metal and locked onto Chad’s neck with his long, strong legs.

“No one touches herrrrr,” Noir growled in a rough voice.  He grinned as he heard a satisfying crunch, snapping Chad’s neck fatally between his legs.  When was the last time he had killed anyways?  It felt so… good to have done it this time.  He didn’t even look at the slain guard as he released the body onto the floor.

“You can um come out, now,” he, before he smacked his lips together.  The sound echoed off of the walls.  “Yanno, it is such a hum… pleasure to… see you again.”

Play On: First Chapter

Here is the first chapter of Play On.  You can purchase it here on Amazon for $1.99.

1.  She always knew her grandfather would die – he was eighty-two after all – but to say she was surprised to find his lifeless body crumpled to the floor of his office would be a drastic understatement.

The door closed behind her but she couldn’t hear it.  The sight before her had been a part of her worst nightmares, but now that she was confronted with the scene, she simply couldn’t see it.  It was like a staged photograph, a museum installation she was on the outside of looking into.  The connection she normally had with the old man had yet to be made; logically, she knew that she should at the very least be crying, but it was as though her brain was paralyzed which caused her whole body to be incapable of anything, even breathing.

Of course, after the initial shock, Seraphina Hanson ran over to her grandfather and tried to see if he was breathing, if there was a chance that this actually was a nightmare she had fallen into and not her current reality.  The tears started to fall now, almost in waves cascading down her cheeks.  Even so, as she spoke to the 911 operator, she managed to keep her voice surprisingly steady.

While she waited, her eyes flitted around the room.  Seraphina did not think he changed anything since he first acquired his ownership of the Newport Beach Seagulls the year she was born, save for the fact that the team photos that filled the wall behind his desk changed with each passing year.  His red oak desk had scattered papers and financial books flipped open and strewn about, completely disorganized unlike the man who occupied the office.  His computer – which he always complained about and rarely if ever transferred records from his books due to his disdain for the technology – was off, looking untouched as it usually was.  The framed photograph of Seraphina and her older sister Katella that normally rested on the left corner of the desk was on the floor, just out of reach of her grandfather’s body, cracks diluting the smiling faces.  The day’s newspaper was close to where she was sitting, crumpled, carelessly open to an article about her grandfather contemplating selling the Gulls in order to retire.  She couldn’t read it.

Her mind desperately needed something to focus on now that the first round of tears were subsiding and the sporadic hiccups that typically followed such an eruption began, and yet the options she had before her were too slippery for her mind to grasp.  Probably she should get up and leave the room, waiting for the police just outside the room – crime scene now, she suspected.  Due to her weekly “Law and Order: Special Victims Unit” marathon, she knew she shouldn’t have entered the room at all.  Crime scene now.  Her grandfather was healthy for his age, and from the apparent struggle that had taken place –

But she didn’t want to think about that.

Most likely, she contaminated the office, maybe even his body, but she had to make sure that he was really –

No.  She didn’t want to say the word.  And she didn’t want to get up.  Not just yet.  She knew that once they got here, they would take his body to determine cause of death and then he would really be gone.  And she didn’t want him to be gone just yet.

Seraphina and her sister Katella had always been close to her grandfather.  Ever since their parents die in a car accident, Ken Brown and his wife Jane took the girls in and raised them.  Jane died the October of Seraphina’s senior year of high school from a stroke, but even with all this tragedy surrounding the family, Ken was always the sturdy oak tree, the sap that held the family of now only three together.  Every once in a while, Ken’s two sons, Alan and Ryan would visit, but they wouldn’t stay long, and afterwards, Ken would always be in one of his rare snippy moods.  He never would tell his granddaughters as to why but Seraphina guessed he didn’t want to taint their optimistic views regarding their uncles.  It didn’t matter though because eventually, both Katella and Seraphina realized what losers their uncles were which only strengthened their affection for Ken.  To both girls, he was their hero in different ways.  While Katella admired his silent strength, always preparing, planning and yet maintaining an optimistic view on life and reveling in the spontaneous (mostly), Seraphina admired his resilience; having gone through the Depression, he literally came from nothing, worked hard, saved up, and now was a quiet multi-millionaire living in Newport Beach, living out one of his many dreams of owning a national hockey team.

Was, of course, being the key word.

Her eyes rolled down.  Before, she couldn’t see him.  Now, he was all she could see.  His short, grey hair usually covered by a navy blue sailor’s cap he wore ever since Seraphina could remember – now somewhere on the floor, a few feet away from her left leg – his cauliflower blue eyes that would never again look at her and shine the way they used to.  His false teeth that he would always pop out to surprise the girls when they were younger would never present themselves in a smile.  Quickly, her mind gathered everything she knew about him and stored those memories at the forefront of her mind; the way he smelled like aftershave and musk, the way he would throw his head back and let out an obnoxious, guttural laugh when he found something truly funny – a trait she inherited from him – the way he would stick out his tongue at her when they used to go to church, before Jane died, even though the surrounding people could see.  The way his arms always made her feel safe, and the way, no matter what, she felt everything would be okay no matter what she was going through – death, a breakup, a poor grade, girl problems, puberty – everything would be okay because he would take her hand, look her in the eyes, and tell her so.  And she would believe him without question.

She was afraid she would forget him.  Forget the coolness of his skin.  The protectiveness of his touch.  The way he laughed.  The sound of his voice.  The way he looked.  The way he smiled.  The way he smelled.

He was the only constant in her life, besides Katella of course, and now he was gone.  Taken from her by someone.

She didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye.

Her mind raced back to their last conversation.  She needed to make sure there was nothing left unsaid between them, something she might have misspoken about that could have offended or disappointed him.  After a few minutes, she realized that no; in fact, they had spoken only a couple of hours ago.  He wanted her to meet him here at seven that evening because he needed to talk to her about something, something regarding the team.  He would never mention what troubled him when it came to work.  Instead, if anything, he asked her to his office once the working day had concluded and told her his dilemma.  For whatever reason, he held Seraphina’s opinion in high esteem, even when it came to something as foreign to her as hockey.  She had a feeling he needed to hear her point of view concerning the situation, whatever the situation might be.  Of course he would never tell her his decision until after he disclosed it to the people involved, but after their talk, he would usually take her out for ice cream and then they would talk about everything but business - what Seraphina planned to do now that she was a college graduate, how Katella’s event coordination business was doing, and was Matt ever going to ask Katella to marry him?

Ken had wanted to confirm that Seraphina was going to come in that evening.  The conversation was no more than two minutes.  Ken had called her his Baby Doll, his term of endearment for her, and they both said “I love you” before hanging up.  There was nothing special about it. 

For a moment, Seraphina’s mind wondered if whatever her grandfather wanted to discuss with her led to his…  Maybe she needed to fantasize in order to grapple with her current predicament, and yet the evidence, the scene before her that she was now in, had shown an obvious struggle.  And a victim was produced in the form of her grandfather.

Someone had killed him, but for the life of her, Seraphina had no idea as to who would do such a vicious act to another human being, and why they would do it to her grandfather.  He was eighty-two; sure, he was strong, and if anyone threatened his granddaughters, Seraphina knew Ken wouldn’t hesitate to protect them.  But courage did not equal strength, and while Ken could defend himself if a match between him and somebody else was relatively even, it was highly unlikely that he had a chance against his attacker if this person was a fraction faster or stronger or younger.

Ken wasn’t a bad, mean person.  He didn’t go out of his way to make someone miserable.  Yes, he had to make difficult decisions regarding his hockey team, the players, coaches, trainers, equipment managers and anyone else involved with the Gulls, but he was always direct, discreet, and fair.  If he had to trade someone, he would explain why, but he would never trade someone without warning.  He always gave people a chance to redeem themselves before making that final decision, because once that decision was made, he wouldn’t change his mind, even if it turned out that that particular decision was wrong.  He negotiated salaries not just on performance, but on a person’s demeanor and if they were a team player both on and off the ice.  Rarely if ever did he talk to the press personally; he let head coach and his close friend Henry Wayne take care of that for him.  The only people that really knew what he was thinking about were Seraphina and Katella, the former more so than the latter only because Katella ran her own business and had to focus more on that than a hockey team.  People seemed to like him, respect him, whether they agreed with him or not.  Which caused Seraphina to shake her head in confusion: who would do such a thing to her grandfather?  What could he have possibly done to warrant such a death?

From her position in the room, she wasn’t quite sure how he died.  For whatever reason, her mind had already concluded that he had been murdered rather than simply killed or dead from something internal like a heart attack.  But there seemed to be bruises forming around his neck and Seraphina could feel a lump forming on the back of his head.  Her rational mind wanted to figure out just what happened, the sequence of events, the suspects. It couldn’t stop thinking even if it wanted to. 

But the pain wouldn’t allow the mind to work just yet.  All Seraphina could do in that moment was to hold her grandfather as tightly as she possibly could, his head resting softly in her lap, and try to memorize everything about him.  Her heart constricted painfully, and before she could stop herself, she started talking to his body as though he was sleeping instead of gone.  She talked about her day and how much she loved him and how he was her hero and would always be her hero and how she never properly thanked him for taking her and Katella in after their parents died and for sending her to college and for being there when she needed it.  She apologized for not attending more hockey games and for dating Billy Stanford and for getting her first and only D in science class her sophomore year of high school.

She wasn’t sure how long she sat there mumbling incoherent sentence fragments or when she started to cry again, but EMTs and police officers arrived soon after.  She didn’t remember having anyone pry his body away from her.  She didn’t remember someone helping her up and leading her out of the office.  But she remembered watching the EMTs place her grandfather’s body on a stretcher and wheel him to the elevators just down the hall.  She knew she would never see him again.