by Ani Gonzalez
Cole Hunt.
He quickly looked away from the name, and focused on the map, tracing the streets with a finger. There it was, right off Main Street, Hooded Owl Road. According to the map, number 12 was two blocks down, turn left, and keep going.
He hiked up his duffle and walked down the street. The sooner he got this done, the sooner he could get back to his life.
Except he didn't have much of a life right now. He had no family, his closest contacts were now scattered across the country, and his best friend was dead. But he had a fancy new title and, thanks to his commanding officers, a new assignment at the Pentagon. He was going to find an apartment in Arlington, get settled, and...
Things got hazy after that. Maybe he'd get a motorcycle...and a girlfriend, definitely a girlfriend, a smart girl, with a nice smile, maybe a blonde or a redhead.
An image popped into his head and he shoved it away. Not a brunette. And absolutely not a brunette with warm brown eyes, freckles on her nose, and the voice of an angel.
So, the plan was simple—job, apartment, motorcycle, girlfriend. It wasn't as interesting as Cole's plan, that's for sure, but it gave Mike direction, a sense of purpose. He liked that.
Job, apartment, motorcycle, girlfriend, but first, there was 12 Hooded Owl Road.
He crossed Main Street, walking towards a battered white bungalow with a large Argentinean flag and a dilapidated neon sign that read, strangely, "F anco Pizza." He squinted at the sign. No, the letter r was defective, and, when it flickered on, the sign actually said "Franco Pizza." The pizza smelled pretty good though. Maybe he'd have a slice after completing his mission.
The house at 12 Hooded Owl Road was an attractive Victorian house, with a small porch, white gingerbread trim and green fish scale shingles. It was old, but well kept, looking a bit like a dignified elderly mermaid. A small pot of yellow flowers sat on the steps.
Mike smiled. The house was bright and colorful.
Just like its owner.
He shook the thought out of his head. He didn't want to think about the owner of the house. He was going to knock on the door, make his delivery and leave Banshee Creek.
He walked toward the house, but, as he reached the porch, he noticed a group of people walking down the street. The leader of the group was a tall, redheaded man dressed in jeans and a biker's vest. His companions were all similarly attired in stereotypical biker gear.
Mike tensed. Two guys from his last unit belonged to motorcycles clubs, and he was very familiar with the subculture. These guys weren't wearing costumes, although the biker wear featured a couple of unusual decorative touches, like tentacles, UFOs, and several "trust no one" tattoos in typewriter font.
The bikers were teasing a young man with an arm in a cast who was dressed in plain jeans and a t-shirt and did not seem to be part of the gang. At least, Mike had yet to meet a biker who'd wear a Berklee School of Music t-shirt.
One of the bikers slapped the musician in the back, and the young man stumbled.
Mike's eyes narrowed, his body tensed and he felt a sudden adrenaline rush. He automatically noted the number of bikers, assessed their strategic positions and evaluated the situation's potential for violence.
But the young man just laughed and made a rude hand gesture. The bikers returned the gesture with a couple of catcalls, and then kept walking towards Main Street chatting and laughing.
Mike relaxed, relieved to find he'd misjudged the situation, and gave himself a good scolding. This was ridiculous. He had to leave his war-zone reflexes behind, this was small town Virginia not Afghanistan. But he turned back to the house and immediately tensed.
A willowy girl was locking the door. She was tall and slender with medium-length brown hair, styled to curl at the ends in an old-fashioned way.
Mike wasn't looking at her hair though. He was looking at her costume, a skin-tight black leather cat suit that outlined every single curve. His fists clenched and he swallowed hard. He tried to walk towards the house, but his feet wouldn't move.
He couldn't bring himself to approach her.
He'd faced enemy fire, ambushes, and IEDs. He'd trained himself to overcome his fears. He'd walked through nightmares and survived.
But he couldn't bring himself to face this girl.
Time to retreat and regroup. He'd continue on his way to Arlington and figure out a different way to make his delivery. Maybe he could hire a courier, or a parcel delivery service.
A group of costumed partygoers blocked his way as he turned to walk away. He tried to push his way through what appeared to be a werewolf punk rock band, but had to swerve to avoid the fur-bedecked subwoofers.
"Mike?" The throaty, sexy voice was unmistakable. "Is that you?"
There was no fighting the siren appeal of that voice. He sighed in resignation and turned.
The girl ran down the steps of her house and her smile was as enthralling as her voice. Mike forced himself to smile back as he greeted the girl he'd loved for the past five years.
Abby Reed. Singer, songwriter, enchantress.
And his dead friend's fiancée.
Ready for more? You can find purchase links for the book here.
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Copyright and Disclaimer
Copyright © July 2019, Ani Gonzalez
Cover Art by Ani Gonzalez © April 2019
Copy Edited by Magical Books Editing
Produced in U.S.A.
Published by Ani Gonzalez
25883 N Park Ave
Suite 520608
Elkhart, Indiana 46514
http://www.AniGonzalez.com
Hex Marks the Spot is a work of fiction and the characters, events and dialogue found within the story are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, either living or deceased, is completely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or shared in any from or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including but not limited to, digital copying, file sharing, audio recording, email and printing, without permission in writing from the author.