Cary dove over Tommy’s car. The pickup missed him, but the bullet didn’t.
• • •
“No.” Chloe Sanders said without looking at her friend, Sheri Thompson, who power-walked beside her. The view of the quaint storefronts of Old Town Hoke’s Bluff, Texas—one of which belonged to her—lining the streets usually made her regular Sunday morning five-mile exercising regimen enjoyable. But not with Sheri beside her, trying to interfere in her life.
Chloe didn’t need interference. She could make a mess of her life all by herself. She’d proven that when she’d let Jerry slip an engagement ring on her finger. Oh, it hadn’t seemed like a bad idea at the time, but a year later, a week before the wedding and . . .
“Look, Dan’s good-looking and a nice guy. A cop. Detective Dan Henderson. Even his name’s hot. He might even be willing to help you out with a couple of those parking tickets.”
“No.”
“Why not?” Sheri asked. “What’s wrong with him?”
Chloe looked up at the flashing sign attached to the street corner light pole as it started counting down the seconds. Ten, nine, eight . . .
Time was ticking. She picked up the pace, swinging her elbows and feeling her blood zing.
“It’s not him, it’s me,” Chloe said, attempting to make the street before the “Do Not Walk” message appeared.
Sheri moved in step beside her. “You must be confused. That’s a breakup line. I’m trying to fix you up.”
Sometimes Chloe was certain Sheri had gone into the wrong career. The job of graphic designer/PR specialist didn’t require bullheadedness, and if her friend excelled at anything, it was being headstrong. “And I’m telling you no.”
“It’s been a year.”
Blast it! The sign flashed red a foot before she reached it. Time was ticking. A year, and sometimes it seemed like yesterday. Heck, she still had two wedding gifts to mail back—not that it was her fault. Her mother’s old neighbor and Jerry’s great-aunt hadn’t answered her email request for the return addresses.
“I know exactly how long it’s been,” Chloe said, frowning at the “Do Not Walk” sign. Had Sheri, her assistant manager, Amber, and her mom held some kind of intervention and forgotten to invite her? Why was everyone suddenly worried about Chloe’s non-dating status? Trying to keep up her heart rate—though this conversation was getting it up all on its own—she commenced to walking in place.
Sheri did the same, her feet tapping against the sidewalk. “I know you’re still hurting but—”
Hurting? Chloe stopped moving and stared at her best friend, who she loved more than books—and she really loved her books—but at times the girl could drive her bat-shit crazy. “What I am is pissed. And I’m getting this close to being super pissed at everyone else who thinks I need a man in my life. I’m happy.”
“You’re not happy. I see it in your eyes. You’re twenty-eight, Chloe. You should be dating, having sex, enjoying life.”
“I’m enjoying myself just fine. I have the Sweet Tooth Bakery, my friends, my family, my cat, my writing when I get back to it, and a fine piece of machinery that gives me better orgasms than Jerry ever did.” And the reason she could name them off so quickly was because she’d had this same talk with herself just that morning.
Sheri stopped walking, stared, and proceeded to burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Chloe asked.
“You’ve got a Bob?”
“A Bob?”
“A battery operated boyfriend?”
Chloe made a face. Okay, so maybe she shouldn’t have told Sheri everything. “There’s nothing wrong with a Bob,” she spouted in self-defense.
“I agree,” Sheri said, still chuckling. “I just never thought you, Miss I-write-children’s-books-and-bake-cupcakes-for-a-living would get one, and if you did, I never thought you’d tell anyone.”
Chloe made a face. First, she hadn’t been able to write in over a year. Second . . . “I didn’t tell anyone. I told you. And if you repeat it to a soul, I’ll tell everyone you . . .” She paused, trying to think of something Sheri didn’t want leaked out. And it wasn’t easy. Sheri, a preacher’s daughter, her dark hair sporting streaks of pink for about three months, was pretty much an open book. Chloe had to mentally go back twelve years before finding one of Sheri’s secrets. “I’ll tell everyone you and Harry Bucklesmith went skinnydipping in the baptism tank.”
“Oh, that’s low,” Sheri said, but laughed. “You already vowed to never tell that.”
“And that shows you how serious I am,” Chloe said. “Bob is my secret.”
The green sign beeped and they crossed the street, picking up their pace.
“I’m serious, too,” Sheri said. “You need to start dating. Bobs aren’t as good as the real thing.”
“Then you haven’t met my Bob,” Chloe said and giggled. They zipped past a mom with a baby in a stroller and a five- or six-year-old girl wearing all pink, holding the woman’s hand.
Chloe couldn’t help but think that not so long ago, she’d wanted that. Marriage. Two kids. A home. But Jerry had killed those dreams.
“What about cuddling? Bobs don’t cuddle. And they suck at pillow talk.”
Chloe couldn’t deny it. She missed cuddling and pillow talk. “I told you I’m fine.” They almost got to another crosswalk. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven . . .
“If you believe that, then you’re lying to yourself. And don’t think I haven’t noticed that you haven’t written a new book.”
Six. Five. Four . . . “I’m not lying to anyone. And I’m plotting a book right now,” she said, and inwardly recoiled when the words tasted bitter on her lips. She was trying to plot. The fact that it wasn’t getting anywhere was another thing. Oh, hell! Maybe she wasn’t fine. But she was better. She’d stopped blaming herself. And started blaming Jerry.
How could she have been about to marry a man she knew so little about? Easy, she’d trusted her heart. The dang thing had let her down. She wouldn’t trust it again.
Three. Two. One . . .
They got to the street one second too late to make the light. Chloe stopped and drew in a deep breath.
“Lucy, wait!” the scream came behind them.
Suddenly, the little girl in pink shot past Chloe, jumped off the curb and ran into the street.
The sound of an engine roared. Chloe’s gaze shot to the black pickup racing forward. The truck’s driver was looking down as if messing with his phone.
“Stop!” she screamed and darted out in the street to catch the little girl.
Chloe caught the child’s hand and looked up. It felt like time slowed down to a crawl. She saw the truck barreling toward them. She saw the blond, pale-skinned driver glance up, shocked. She heard the sound of brakes.
But the truck kept coming.
Chloe pushed the little girl out of the way at the same time she heard the sound of tires screeching. The truck swerved, fishtailed. Suddenly, the air felt sucked out of her lungs.
Chloe knew she’d been hit, but oddly it didn’t hurt. She felt herself being propelled into the air and everything went black.
Chapter Two
“Mother fucker!” J.D. ground out, barely stopping before he hit a parked car. Burnt rubber flavored his quick intake of air. As if seeing it in slow motion, he watched the woman land facedown on the street. Why the hell had she run out? Then he saw the dazed-looking little girl standing a few feet from his truck.
At least he hadn’t hit the kid. But he had hit the woman. His gaze shot back to the body, lying so still. Oh, shit! Was she dead?
Another woman stood at the curb screaming.
He looked at the beer in his cup holder. At his gun on the floorboard beside what was left of his white powder. Panic churned in his stomach. This one wasn’t his fault. But he couldn’t hang around to be proven innocent when he was so damn guilty of other stuff.
Guilty. It was his fault. His fault that other dude died. He had to open his mouth a
nd tell Jax what he knew. He’d wanted to fit in. Thought by sharing the info, Jax would accept him more. But look at the price. J.D. could still see the fear in that ol’ dude’s eyes right before the bullet took off most of his head.
The cop hadn’t been part of that plan. Why had the cop shown up? He’d seen the guy’s gun, and fired his own weapon before he recognized him. It was the same cop who’d arrested him a few months back. J.D. hadn’t even meant to shoot anyone, just to make sure he didn’t get shot. J.D. couldn’t shoot worth a damn. That cop was just unlucky. Now J.D. was gonna be unlucky. Everyone knew what cops did to people who shot one of their own.
He released his foot off the brake and hit the gas. Doing what he’d done since he was fourteen and his stepfather had beaten the shit of out of him for the third time. He ran away.
• • •
“Room six,” a voice said. But Chloe couldn’t see who said it. Everything was all black. Then the blackness started to fade. Replaced by a blinding light. Slowly, things started to come into focus.
“Excuse me?” Chloe asked, feeling lost and completely out of it. Where the heck was she? She eyed the walls, all white. The ceiling. All white. The floors. All white. Then a guy—obviously the owner of the voice—dressed in . . . all white . . . standing beside a big white desk, staring at a computer screen.
“Room six. It’s to your left.”
“But, I don’t understand. Where—?”
“Chop. Chop,” he said, smiling, exposing . . . extra white teeth. “It’ll be peachy, young lady.” He pointed down the hall.
Peachy?Who the hell said peachy anymore? Questions sat on the tip of her tongue. She frowned at the guy, and then decided not to argue. Maybe someone in room six would be a tad more cooperative.
She started down the hall to the left. The doors were clearly marked. She found the door with a big six on it and cautiously pushed it open and took a tiny step inside.
She started at one end of the room and let her gaze shift around the chairs lining the wall. Most of them were occupied. Her gaze shifted from one elderly person to the next. Where the heck was she? The place reminded her of Denny’s at four in the afternoon. Or her grandmother’s retirement condo in Florida.
Chloe had just come back from there three weeks ago. She loved her Nana, but if she didn’t have to play another game of pinochle for a year, she’d be happy.
Just as her complete circle around the room was almost done, her gaze lit on a man. And not an elderly man. Brown hair that flipped up on its ends and a chiseled face that reminded her of . . . Wow. Johnny Depp. Only bigger. She’d heard that Johnny was actually a small guy. This man towered a head above all the little old people in the room.
Wearing jeans that fit his long legs and a navy short-sleeve button-down shirt—left open with a T-shirt under it—he sat with one ankle thrown over the other. Cowboy boots covered his feet. In his lap was an AARP magazine, and he flipped pages like a bored kid.
The sight of him, among everyone else, reminded her of the kids’ workbooks where you picked out what didn’t belong. He didn’t fit here.
Neither did she. The thought ran around her addled brain, but she wasn’t even sure what it meant.
Unlike all the senior citizens, he hadn’t looked up. She could almost hear him muttering something under his breath. The chair next to him stood empty.
“Another young one,” an elderly man said.
“A shame,” said a woman.
What was a shame?
Chloe felt her stomach knot.
The young, didn’t-belong-here man stopped flipping through the magazine and lifted his gaze. Dark brown, piercing eyes studied her. Yup, Johnny Depp all right.
In the traditional male way, his gaze shifted down and then up her body. Chloe suddenly realized she was wearing her exercise clothes. Short yoga pants and a sports bra. Not that it was indecent, and considering most of the females in the room wore muumuus or nightgowns, she probably shouldn’t feel self-conscious.
She still did.
When those eyes focused back on her face, his right eyebrow arched ever so slightly and he offered her a slight nod. A slight smile pulled at his lips. She got a crazy feeling he was happy to have someone his own age joining him. She took the seat next to him—not because of her silly crush on Johnny Depp—but because . . . well, just because.
She sat straight, aware of everyone’s eyes on her.
He shifted and his shoulder almost touched hers. Her heart jumped a few beats. “You okay?” he asked.
Taking a deep breath, she voiced her question. “Where are we?”
• • •
Chloe waited for dark-haired hottie to answer, trying not to squirm in her chair, feeling as if every elderly person in the room had her in a locked gaze.
He leaned in. “That depends on who you believe,” he said, his voice low as he motioned to a very unhappy elderly man sitting right across from them. “Sylvania over there says it’s hell, ’cause that woman wearing curlers and the blue nightgown next to him is his ex-wife. Don’t ask why they got divorced, it gets nasty.” He smiled but quickly ran a hand over his face as if to hide his expression. He motioned to another woman wearing a bright purple housedress. “Gertrude Talbot says it’s heaven ’cause her bad hip isn’t hurting. And Mr. Jefferson,” he pointed to an African American gentleman sitting still with his hands folded in his lap, “says it’s purgatory. He’s Catholic, by the way.”
When he finished talking, a memory flashed across Chloe’s mind. The little girl in pink. Lucy. Lucy running into the street. A black truck racing forward.
She gasped and placed a trembling hand over her mouth. Had the little girl lived? Please let her be alive. “Oh, God.”
“Where?” said one of the little ol’ ladies, rousing as if she’d been half asleep. “Where’s God?”
Read on for the first four chapters
of Miranda’s story,
Spellbinder,
available June 30
for just $1.99
wherever ebooks are sold.
When magic, romance and family secrets collide, the result is spellbinding!
Miranda Kane has always felt like a screwup—at least when it comes to her ability to wield magic. Her only sanctuary is Shadow Falls camp, where she’s learning to harness her powers as a witch. But thanks to her shape-shifter boyfriend who called it quits and ran off to Paris, both her heart and powers feel broken.
When she unexpectedly lands a top spot in a spell-casting competition in France, she flies out with her best friends Kylie and Della. But her trip takes her straight into the heart of a dangerous supernatural mystery—and a heated romance. What Miranda doesn’t expect is for her investigation to unleash shocking revelations . . . about herself, her family, and her archenemy. Now Miranda must step up and show everyone that she’s a witch to be reckoned with . . . before it’s too late.
Chapter One
Miranda Kane lay on the floor of her personal waiting/dressing room. Instead of meditating on the spells that she was about to be forced to perform, she committed murder.
Recently, she’d learned that killing helped calm her nerves. Not anything real, of course. It was just a game. She wouldn’t step on a bug. And a Texas-sized roach, the flying kind, had been hovering in the corner of the room as if unsure her “live and let live” policy included him. It did. Every living creature had a right to life.
But watching those imaginary demonic shape-shifters clutch their chests and keel over did a girl’s heart good. Especially since Perry, the blond, hot shape-shifter, had broken up with her and run off to Paris.
Not only was he not calling her, he wasn’t taking her calls. She didn’t buy the “you deserve better” line he’d offered. Right now, he was probably French kissing some little Parisian twit.
And the fact that he was so good at French kissing just made it worse.
“Die,” she seethed as she took pleasure in running her sword through the belly of the bl
ond demon with bright eyes who reminded her of Perry. “Yes!” She punched the air in victory.
She’d been playing for two weeks, and so far, this Perry-like villain had escaped her wrath. But no longer. “Victory is mine!” she declared in a cold voice.
The swish of the door opening brought her out of the game. Since it was too late to pretend to be doing anything other than killing, she continued to watch the touchscreen on her phone. She didn’t even bother straining her neck to see who was invading her privacy.
She didn’t have to.
If the sweet perfume wasn’t a dead giveaway, the sound of the high heels tapping on the wood floor announced her visitor. And since Miranda knew she was gonna get hell, she figured she should enjoy the win as long as she could. The dying shape-shifter slowly fell to his knees.
His light blue eyes stared up from the screen. They looked sad. In pain. And damn if she didn’t feel guilty. No. No. No. This was supposed to feel good. Not bad.
“What are you doing?” her mom asked in a clipped tone.
“Nothing.” She groaned when the shape-shifter found a magical bag of healing herbs, preventing him from taking his last breath before she could hit a few buttons and claim it as her own. He healed himself, bolted to his feet, and attacked.
“No!” Miranda yelled.
“No, what?”
Miranda’s finger pushed the kill button and her avatar grabbed her weapon, but it was too late. The shape-shifter ran his sword right through her heart, killing her. The screen went red. Red for blood. Red for death.
Her breath caught. Her chest actually burned. Tears moistened her eyes. How appropriate. The real Perry had accomplished the very same thing.
“Since when do you waste your time playing those silly cell phone games?” her mom asked.
“I don’t do it all the time.” Feeling her mom’s stern gaze, she got up, slid her phone into her jeans, and blinked away the beginning of tears. Her gaze shifted to the window, where only recently the sun had beamed into the room.
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