20 Shades of Shifters_A Paranormal Romance Collection

by Demelza Carlton

  They rolled over a busted speedbump and kicked into high gear. As they drove by, Ms. Kaminski's cockier spaniel, Harley, howled and charged his chain. Then he slunk through a gap in the missing skirting around the trailer and eyed them suspiciously from the shadows. Ms. K came out on her porch in a flowered bathrobe, her veiny calves showing below the hem. She leaned over her metal porch rail and waved as they drove past.

  Camila waved at Ms. K. She’d have to walk Harley for her after she got off work.

  A couple of Kool-Aid-mustached children sitting on a plastic climber called to them as they neared the main street. They approached Mr. Harris’ dilapidated doublewide that he shared with about fifteen cats. The house next to his was abandoned. The wooden porch had separated from the trailer and leaned at a dangerous angle. The siding was bowed and warped, making the whole house look like a bulging can ready to explode. Two-foot-high grass swayed in the breeze, hiding a computer monitor and a printer. Tattered curtains fluttered out of the broken windows like a cartoon haunted house.

  No guy would ever come to her trailer park if she could help it.

  “I mean,” Fer said, picking up the conversation where they'd left off, “your mom gets knocked up when she's, what, seventeen, not even married? And she expects you to keep it in your pants?”

  “Stop,” Camila said, keeping her eyes on the cracked sidewalk as they veered past the sign that read Hidden Woods Mobile Homes and out of the park. The main road shimmered in the summer heat. Cars rushed past in a steady stream.

  “Not your fault your ma got knocked up. I mean look at my dumb-ass mother. How many dudes has she brought home this month?”

  “Fer,” Camila said, her voice as taut as a wire, “Just drop it, okay?”

  Fer shrugged. “Okay. Sorry.” She sped out onto the street and they went silent for a while.

  Why did it bother her so much when Fer talked about Mama? Everything she said was true. And Fer had it bad with her mother's alcoholic boyfriends. But at least Fer knew her father and saw him on holidays and long weekends. Fer had her brother, Shaun, and loads of aunts and cousins. Sure, they didn't get along, but at least she had them. Camila didn't even have a photo of her father. Mama needed help. She was only getting worse.

  Her thoughts fell away as they pulled into Lizzy’s Ice Cream parking lot and a sick unease took hold. Fer called this job a no-brainer. The owner was a sad divorcée who was never around. The assistant manager was a twenty-one-year-old, pot-smoking, community college student. Piece of cake, Fer had said. Then why did Camila's stomach flip when they pulled in and parked in the back?

  The ice cream shop was the most rectangular, dumpy building on this crappy two-lane road. The cinder-block exterior, once lemon yellow, had faded to dirty lard. The large block letters above the ordering window read Lizzy’s. Very creative. The landscaping had run amok and weeds sprouted out of the flowerbeds in brown, wispy strands. A few mismatched chairs and picnic tables sat on the cement slab, filling up with customers on a hot day. Channel 4 News said it was going to be eighty-eight degrees today, hot fo sho, as Fer would say.

  Michigan in July was uncomfortable, but the inside of Lizzy’s Ice Cream felt like an Easy Bake Oven cranked to high. She spied the open screen windows, the fans oscillating in the corners. No A.C.

  As they stepped in, a woman in her forties blocked their path. Her manicured red nails tapped on the counter as she frowned at them.

  “Jennifer, you are twenty minutes late.” The woman, who had to be Lizzy, set her painted mouth in a disapproving scowl. Her bleach-blond hair, going gray at the roots, was teased and sprayed until it flared out like an eighties rock star. She was wearing a Rolling Stones tank top over acid-washed jean shorts. Camila didn’t look directly at them, but she was certain Lizzy’s boobs could not be real.

  “Well,” Lizzy said, waving an arm at Fer, “what you got to say for yourself?”

  Fer shot a glance at Camila. “Lizzy, I—”

  “It’s my fault,” Camila said. “I made her late.”

  Lizzy’s scowl tracked from Fer to Camila. “Camila, Jennifer runs her mouth all day about how great you are, but I gotta tell ya, late on the first day ain’t cuttin’ it, sweetheart.” Lizzy pointed a finger at Fer. “What’s Lizzy’s number one rule?”

  Fer blew out her breath. “Always be loyal.”

  “That’s right!” Lizzy said, smacking her hand on the counter hard enough to make Camila jump. “And being late ain’t loyal. Ask my peach of an ex-husband.”

  Fer’s eyebrows drew up and a little smirk curled on her lips. “Tell Camila about your peach of an ex-husband, Liz.”

  Lizzy’s eyes lit up. “That smarmy bastard. He lives in Tahoe now with his new screw-buddy-turned-wife, Darcy. What kinda dumbasses name their daughter Darcy? A couple of inbred, idiot pig farmers, that’s who.”

  Camila tried not to make any sudden movements. Fer, standing behind Lizzy, gave a wicked smile and waggled her eyebrows.

  “Lizzy,” Fer said, filling a metal cup with warm water and plunking a battered ice cream scoop into it, “tell her what that bastard sent you for Christmas.”

  “Ah, God,” Lizzy said, throwing her hands up in disgust. A single leopard-print bra strap dislodged and slid down her shoulder. “You know what that slimy bastard sent me for Christmas?”

  Camila took a step back from Lizzy’s flailing arms. “I don't kno—”

  “A Goddamned Christmas card!” Lizzy shrieked, striking her hand on the counter. “And do you know what was on that Goddamned Christmas card?”

  “Tell her.” Fer stuck her tongue to the side of her mouth as if to say Get a load of this one. Camila made a mental note to kill Fer.

  “A picture of the two of them at a chapel in Vegas. Had himself a friggin’ Elvis weddin’. I coulda spit nails.” Lizzy clutched the counter and rocked back and forth. “Darcy. Like I give a crap if they get married or screw or whatever. I got his daddy’s ice cream shop, hell hole that it is.”

  Camila twisted her hands together. A question burned in her brain, but she was afraid to ask. “Um, Lizzy? When do I get my first pay check?”

  Lizzy’s eyes flicked to Camila. “Two weeks. No advances.”

  Camila nodded politely, but felt her stomach twist. They needed the money now.

  Lizzy’s pocket buzzed. She pulled out her phone and scanned the screen for a moment. Then she turned to Camila and Fer. “Travis comes in at one. Michelle at three. Jennifer, be Mommy's big girl and show Camila the ropes, yeah?”

  Fer nodded, already pulling out stacks of waffle cones and cans of Ready Whip. Camila pictured the patrons, their noses pressed to the glass, fingers pointing at the laminated order menu stuck inside. “You know I got this on lock-down.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Lizzy said, her eyes on her phone. “Just make sure the drawers are right this time.” Lizzy gave her a shake of a finger and then shuffled out the door.

  As soon as she was gone, Fer burst into laughter.

  “Can you believe that?” Fer said, thumbing toward the back door. “Lizzy is Grade A, bat-shit craaa-zaay.” Fer hefted herself onto one of the counters and sat down, her belly spilling over her jeans. “Didn’t I tell you nothing to worry about?”

  Camila’s stomach was still in knots. “What’s all that stuff about loyalty? Rule number one?”

  Fer dug her hand into the cup of sprinkles and dropped some into her mouth. “Yeah, she’s not messing around with that one. Better not be late again. That’s probably the only thing Lizzy would can your ass for.” Fer held out her palm. “Sprinkles?”

  John

  Tuesday 12:48 p.m.

  John adjusted the bag of fertilizer under his head for the hundredth time and closed his eyes. The nine-by-six shed smelled of weed killer, cedar chips, and potting soil. The wood floor, baked by the heat of the day, warmed his butt through his spandex running shorts. He lifted his eyes to the distant humming in the corner. He squinted, trying to make out the dark shapes buzzing around
the roof. Bees. If he didn't bug them, they'd leave him alone, right?

  He dug his head into the fertilizer bag and tried to relax. Having four walls around him was calming. The vast openness of the woods was spooky. An hour before he'd found this shed, something had jumped out of the shadows and he’d screamed like a little girl. That something turned out to be a squirrel.

  It was the thing that haunted him. The thing with red reptilian eyes that had followed him here. In the dark he could see those eyes—large, veiny, and slitted like a python's. John shivered, despite the heat. He swore he'd heard footsteps behind him for miles, but he'd seen nothing. No red eyes. No dripping fangs. Had there been fangs? He wasn’t sure, but his imagination produced them anyway. Six-inch fangs. Dripping in Blood.

  Why was it following him? Why was it here?

  A coil of knotted-up hose cramped his back. He tried to get comfortable. Would he ever be comfortable again?

  All day he’d tried to keep his spirits up, but he was alone, hungry, and wearing women’s underwear. Well, not exactly, but it was close enough. He had no idea who he was or where. Tomorrow, if his memory hadn’t returned, he’d ask for help, no matter how scared he was. Or, maybe he'd remember. God, let him remember.

  He tried again for a memory, closing his eyes. Digging, digging.

  This time he found himself at the giant silo's base, the curving wall rising up in front of him. The long grass swayed in the breeze. He tried to look around, but his head was locked in place. All he could do was stare at the pitted gray silo. He put his palms to the cool metal, looking for an opening, a door, anything. And above, someone was calling.

  In the shed his foot hit something. He opened his eyes to see a ceramic pot teeter.

  And smash.

  He looked up at the shed doors, anxiety flooding him. The sound would be muffled by the plywood, but the house was only twenty feet away. The house had been quiet when he’d slunk by and let himself in, but someone could be home. His heart leapt in his chest.

  He waited, breathless.

  Footsteps clomped up the shed ramp outside. The door latch scraped open.

  John snapped upright and stood. He watched in horror as the gap between the doors widened. Someone was opening the shed.

  His eyes locked on the shadow that stomped up the wooden ramp. He didn't breathe.

  The shadow was large and male. John heard something slide under one of the shelves to his right. In the dimness, the shadow stepped closer. Something metal clanked together on the wall.

  “Goddamn son-of-a…” a male voice said. There was click of a lamp chain being pulled. The shed flooded with light.

  Blinded, John stumbled back.

  “What…? Who the hell are you?” the man shouted, stumbling back in shock. He tripped on a weed whacker and went sprawling on his back.

  The light bulb swung back and forth, throwing crazy shadows across the walls. Tools clanked to the floor.

  John run toward the door, but the man hauled himself up and blocked his exit.

  They stood staring at each other. The forty-something homeowner was clad in a collared work shirt and dress pants. His hair was graying at the temples and thinning at the crown. With his supple beer gut and thick arms, he had at least forty pounds on John.

  The man found a long-handled shovel and raised it like a baseball bat.

  “What the hell are you doing in my shed?” The man's hands were trembling, but his eyes were on fire. He raised the shovel like a medieval broadsword. “Answer me!”

  John’s throat was dry. No sound came out. Terrified, he listened to his body. He bolted.

  The man swung.

  The rusty blade, dented at one corner, made a whistling sound as it sliced through the stale air. A beam of light glinted off the metal as it arched toward his head. John winced.

  The blade cracked against his skull with a noise like a tree being snapped in half. Pain burst across his cheek. His vision blurred. He fell, his legs suddenly gone. His head seemed to float somewhere far off.

  He hit the shed wall and slid down. His mind was a bag of cotton, his arms useless sandbags.

  Heat flooded his cheek, his eye socket, down to his jaw. He waited for more pain, like his cranium would crack open. Yet, the throbbing pain was abating. He put his hand to his face. Was his cheek still there?

  “What the…?” the man said, astonished.

  John opened his eyes.

  The man examined the mangled shovel. The steel was dented where it had met John's head.

  His head? His head fought a shovel and won?

  A cold chill ran up John's arms as he looked at the metal blade. The pain was nearly gone now.

  This couldn't be happening.

  The man watched as John pulled himself up. The homeowner’s face flashed with first terror and then fury. “You think you’re just gonna rob me again?” the man said. “Not this time.”

  He dropped the shovel and grabbed for John.

  John stumbled into the corner, knocking a shelf off the wall. The man’s fingers clawed at him, curled into his throat. Then they were choking, choking.

  Thumbs dug into John's Adam's apple. The man's brown irises had receded to wild, round pupils. Spittle flecked the corners of his five o’clock shadow.

  “Don't!” John choked. His air dwindled. Stars danced across his vision.

  John slammed both palms into the center of the man's chest. Instantly the choking hands were gone, and the attacker, too. The man sailed backward, arms flailing, shirt rippling. He slammed through the shed doors, smashing them open.

  They thwacked back and forth wildly. There was a thud somewhere on the grass beyond. Then silence.

  The bees buzzed madly.

  John stared at the space where the man had been. He’d only wanted to breathe. He’d only shoved him.

  Shaking, John pulled through the shed, past the mangled shovel and over the weed whacker. He stepped onto the grass, one hand on the door to keep his footing. The body lay six or seven feet from the shed. He went to it, barely breathing, the dry July lawn crinkling under his feet.

  What have I done?

  He leaned over the body. He was about to lose his lunch, but he had to see if he'd killed him. The man lay supine on the lawn, one arm straight out, the other tucked beneath. His flip-flop had landed in a flowerbed. John bent down and pressed his hand to the man's back.

  The shirt was wet in the crease between the shoulder blades. Blood? No, only sweat. He listened for breathing. Oh God, let him be breathing.

  The man’s chest rose and fell softly. John slumped back on his heels and blew out a breath. He rolled the man over. A welt swelled like a plump fruit on his right temple. Other than that, he looked okay.

  Inside the house, a woman began screaming.

  John dropped the man and bolted into the night.

  Camila

  Tuesday 1:06 p.m.

  One hour into the “piece of cake” job, Camila was ready to eat her words with a double scoop of Chocolate Mocha.

  The line at Lizzy’s snaked six feet back from the order window. The picnic tables were packed with laughing teenagers and moms with three or four kids in tow. Camila spotted her Algebra teacher in the crowd, his kids elbowing each other to get a better look at the menu. Everyone in Auburn Township’s heat survival plan seemed to include Lizzy’s.

  Camila wiped sweat from her brow and tried not to hate them.

  “Double swirl with sprinkles and a Kit Kat flurry. Large!” Fer yelled as she streaked by, two waffle cones in each hand.

  Camila looked warily at the soft-serve machine, a clunky stainless steel contraption with three nozzles protruding from the front. The only “tutorial” Camila had gotten happened before they opened: Fer had flipped back her ponytail, placed her mouth under the spigot and pulled the vanilla handle. With the line extending into the blacktop, and the natives growing restless, there was no time for Fer to teach her. Camila took a waffle cone from the stack, held it under the spigot, and
pulled the lever. The vanilla ice cream snaked into the cone faster than she'd expected. The result was a lopsided vanilla mountain ready to topple at any movement.

  Fer flew by and grabbed it out of Camila’s grip. “Good enough. Work on the Cherry dip, will ya?” Purple hair clung to Fer's forehead in sweaty strands.

  “Fer, I’m sorry. I’ll—”

  “Save the apologies,” Fer said, striding over to the window, where a six-year-old stood on his tip-toes to peer in. She handed him the cone. Then she flicked her eyes back to Camila. “Cherry dip. Pronto, mi amiga, por favor.”

  “Right, right.” Camila grabbed a cone and swirled in vanilla, managing to keep it relatively symmetrical. The basin holding the red cherry liquid sat to the right of the soft serve machine. Camila flipped the cone upside down and dunked it in the red soup. She watched in anguish as all the ice cream slid out of the cone and bobbed at the bottom of the basin like a mangled beluga whale.

  “Whoa! Another one bites the dust,” said a voice behind her.

  She whirled around. A slender boy in a Lizzy’s Ice Cream T-shirt stepped around her, whisked a cone off the rack, filled it with soft serve, and dipped it in with one fluid motion. He handed the perfect cherry dip to Fer without taking his eyes off Camila.

  “Don’t worry about it, man.” A warm smile spread over his face. “My first day I accidentally unplugged the back freezer. Shoulda seen Lizzy flip her lid on that one.” He stuck out his hand. “Travis.”

  The infamous Travis. Fer had described him as a burn-out, complete with hemp necklaces and Rasta T-shirts, but with his warm smile and kind eyes, wondered about Fer’s assessment. She could see the pothead signals: the stains on his fingers, the unwashed hair that hung past his ears, the bloodshot eyes. He had a scar on his chin and road rash on his elbow that suggested trick biking or skateboarding. His little soul-patch beard curled down his chin like a fuzzy strip of carpet. He was Shaggy from Scooby-Doo, yet nicer on the eyes.