He crept up her body, taking one nipple into his mouth on the way then switching to the other as cool air hit the one he’d just left. By the time he reached her mouth she was practically begging him to enter her. He kissed her mouth slowly as he positioned himself before thrusting forward until his hips rubbed against her. He swallowed her cry, continuing his assault on her mouth as he moved in a slow, agonizing rhythm.
She lifted her hips whenever he pushed forward, urging him silently to move quicker, harder. Separating their mouths, he lifted himself up on his hands, the muscles in his arms and shoulders straining above her. She let her hands drift over his skin, committing every dip and rise to memory. He started to move faster, pounding against her. Her orgasm hit unexpectedly and she opened her mouth to cry out. One of his hands covered her mouth as she climaxed around him, her inside walls gripping him tightly. He followed soon after, dropping his face into her neck, moaning her name.
Charlotte held onto him tightly as they both regained their breaths. When he pulled out slowly they moaned together. She instantly felt the loss of him. She loved being connected to him in that most intimate way. She didn’t think she’d ever get tired of it. Pete collapsed beside her, drawing her into his arms and covering them with the blanket. She rested her head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
“What are we going to do about Bridgette?” she asked after they lay there in silence for a while.
He shifted so one hand was stroking her arm softly. “I sent a few guys to check things out. She was already inside.”
“If they figure out what my father has done, they’ll kill her.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “We’ll get her back, Charlotte. I promise.”
She traced her fingers down his chest. “What about my father?”
He sighed. “Your dad has lost sight of what’s important. We’re going to need to take control from him. I don’t want to be a part of his movement if he’s going to be spilling blood as easily as Tenebris does.”
“I’d like to say he’s changed a lot since I knew him, but I’m not sure that would be the truth. I think my dad was always as callous as he is now.”
“Well he certainly didn’t show it. He’s showing his true colours, and a lot of us aren’t happy about it. We need to figure out our next steps in saving this rebellion so that there’s actually a population left when it’s all done. First we need to get Bridge.”
She nodded against him. “I can’t lose her again.”
He kissed the top of her head. “You won’t.”
The door opened a fraction, his father’s head popping in to look at them with raised eyebrows. “I told you she needed to rest,” he said accusingly.
“She is resting,” Pete said, pulling her closer.
“Uh huh.” The door shut again and they both started to laugh. Charlotte dug her face into the side of his chest.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look him in the eye again.”
Pete chuckled, patting her ass. “He’s probably secretly proud of me.” She slapped his chest before settling down again. “Get some rest,” he said. “Tomorrow will be a whole new day of shit to overcome.”
Charlotte closed her eyes, snuggling in closer. He was right, tomorrow would bring a new set of problems, but at least they’d be able to take them on together. She’d found someone that made her happy, gave her a new life and a sense of belonging. The past five years she had spent walking around in a haze of detachment. Nothing and no one touched her, her walls intact. But Pete McKay had come and bulldozed them down, and she was so thankful he had.
The fabric across the bottom part of her face was suffocating. How had Charlotte worn this for so long? Bridgette pulled at the fabric, wishing she could just take it off and let the air hit her skin. She walked through the building, remembering where Charlotte had said her room would be. She prayed her sister was okay back at the church. She didn’t trust her father as far as she could throw him, but really, what choice did she have? If it was between doing this, or losing her sister again, she’d do this and anything else he asked of her.
Her chest itched where she had strapped her breasts down, considering she was a hell of a lot more curvy than Charlotte. The boots pinched her toes and a blister was already forming on her left heel. She was miserable. Her physical discomfort was not helping her overall nerves about this whole thing.
A few men nodded her way as she walked toward the elevator. She nodded back, not speaking. None of them seemed to mind or consider this abnormal, so she rolled with it. As soon as the elevator reached the fourth floor she was practically running down the hall. All she needed to do was get to her room so she could compose herself and prepare for tomorrow. She had to be here for a week and a half. That wasn’t too bad…okay, it was awful. That gave her plenty of opportunities to screw up. She just hoped that her sister wasn’t lying about being moody all the time around them, so no one would think it odd if she was quiet.
The room was just up ahead. Almost there, she thought gratefully. She wanted out of this outfit so she could breathe normally.
“Lottey,” a deep voice came from behind.
Bridgette turned slowly, and froze. The room was just a few steps away. Her sanctuary. Her place of refuge. Just a few steps, and yet it seemed like miles as she faced the last person she wanted to see right now. This next week and a half was going to be the longest ten days of her life. That is, if she even made it that long. Because one of her biggest fears was walking toward her, a worried look on his face. Roman Adamson. God help her.
WATCH OUT FOR BRIDGETTE AND ROMAN’S STORY
COMING IN 2014
Keep reading for a sneak peek of the thrilling NA Fantasy Romance
Shooting Stars, A Surah Stormsong Novel
by H.D. Gordon.
And
YA Paranormal hit
See
By Jamie Magee
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To my family and friends, I say it each and every time, and that’s because it’s true, thank you for your constant support and love, it means the world to me. Without it, I don’t know if I’d still be pressing on with this journey in the literary world. I am so lucky to have people around me that I can lean on when I need it, and who cheer me on every step of the way.
To my betas for Switch, Kayleigh-Marie Gore, Nikki Rae, H.D. Gordon, Karla Calzada, and Terri Thomas – THANK YOU. You ladies rock and I love you all. A huge thank you to my editor, Stephanie Hamilton, for once again taking the time to fix all my mistakes and making me rethink my approach to certain aspects of the story. All of you have helped me grow in this process. I can’t tell you how much that means to me.
A special thank you to H.D. Gordon for constantly being there when I need you. For bouncing ideas around with me, for listening to me rant and rave when I need to, for being my partner in crime throughout this processes and helping me move forward to bigger and better things. And most importantly, for all the encouragement you give me each and every day. I am so thankful that I get to call you my friend and to know that you’ll always have my back, and I yours. Love you lots xo
A MASSIVE thank you to the amazing, talented, wonderful, superb – I could go on forever – Regina Wamba of Mae I Design for designing this gorgeous cover. I’m so happy you didn’t listen to any of my ideas lol because what you did is a million times better than anything I could have thought up.
And last, but certainly not least, to all my readers, fellow authors, and bloggers who continually support me – thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.
xoxo
Janelle
Shooting Stars
A Surah Stormsong Novel
~Book One~
H. D. Gordon
“I know it’s not much but it’s the best I can do, my gift is my song, yeah, and this one’s for you.”
—Elton John Your Song
“Anyway, the thing is, what I really mean, yours are the sweet
est eyes I’ve ever seen.”
—Elton John Your Song
PART I: GIVE AN INCH
CHAPTER ONE
Charlie could tell there was something wrong with the old man as soon as he walked in the door. He couldn’t pinpoint the source of the wrongness because it seemed to be everything and nothing at once. The way the old man dragged his left foot a little as he shuffled toward him. (Could be Charlie’s imagination.) The way his creased eyelids seemed to be drooping a touch too much. (He could just be tired.) The way even the tattered cloak on the old man’s back seemed not to ripple as he moved, but hang stiffly over boney, sagging shoulders. (Again, could be Charlie’s imagination.)
The man pulled out a stool at the bar and took a seat, resting his elbows on the shiny bar top and his chin in his brown-spotted hands. His spoiled liver breath smacked Charlie in the face as he leaned forward. Charlie tucked the rag he’d been using to polish the bar into the waistband of his jeans and eyed the old man for a minute, the soft lights of the bar casting deep shadows in the crevasses of his face, making canyons there.
He was the last customer of the night. The bar would be closing in less than five minutes. Old Brad Milner had a habit of popping in at the last minute for one final nightcap, as if he had gone home just to dig around in his seat cushions for change, which he probably had.
“Hiya, Chuck,” he said his voice the rasp of sandpaper on wood.
Charlie smiled. This greeting was normal. It set him at ease a bit. “How ya doin, Mr. Milner?”
The old man waved a hand. “Fine, Chuck. Just fine. Could use a nice shot of your finest whiskey.” He winked and grinned. His teeth always made Charlie wish he wouldn’t. They were stained with thousands of years’ worth of booze and nicotine, the color of rotted wood. But Charlie grinned back. This was an inside joke. By finest whiskey Milner meant cheapest whiskey.
Charlie poured the drink and set it in front of the old man, feeling a tightness in his throat he couldn’t explain. “Little late to be out, ain’t it?” he asked, a question he posed most every night, and most every night received the same answer.
Milner waved his hand again, grinning now with his wiser-than-you grin, glassy faded blue eyes shining out of his sunken face. “And how many nights you suppose I got left to be staying out, Chuck?” He took a deep swig of his drink, the apple in his throat bobbing grotesquely, and set it down again. The glass thudded heavily on the bar, and a little whiskey sloshed up and spilled over the rim, running down the wrinkles in Milner’s hand like dirty rivers. “I hope not too many.” He laughed. More spoiled breath hit Charlie’s face. He swallowed once and forced a grimace away before it could take stage.
Charlie watched as Milner’s eyes went distant and glassy. “There’s a storm comin,” the old man rasped, lifting the drink again and finishing off the whiskey in one final grotesque bob of his throat. Another thunk! on the bar as he set the glass down. “I can feel it.”
Charlie’s unease settled back over him in full force. He put his hands on the bar and leaned forward. “Hey, you okay, Mr. Milner?” he asked. “You seem a little…off.”
Milner’s head tilted in an oddly bird-like fashion, the movement almost too sudden for such an old neck. His creased lids blinked once. Now Charlie’s stomach tightened. His hands were fists at his sides.
“Do I?” Milner asked, and let out a belch that made Charlie take an involuntary half-step back.
That was when Merin Nightborn walked through the door. Both Milner and Charlie turned their heads as she entered, and Charlie suppressed a sigh when the Sorceress fixed him with a wide red smile, white teeth gleaming out from behind. The cloak she wore was also red, the color of her family’s crest, and her black hair fell down the back of it like a dark hood. She came over to the bar and took a seat two stools down from the old man, flicking her eyes to him once and wiping the disgusted twist of her lips away before it could really settle. Her gloved hands came up and rested on the bar as she leaned forward, pushing her cleavage up and out and smiling again at Charlie.
“Good morning, Mr. Redmine,” she said, her speech that of a Highborn.
Charlie nodded, thinking this day might never end. “Lady Nightborn.”
Merin’s bottom lip pushed out. She had told him a hundred times before to call her by her first name, and he never did. Just as she never called him Chuck or Charlie. His reason for formality was because he didn’t want to encourage her, not that she needed encouragement. Her reason was because a lady in her position should not be caught in public addressing him by his common name. Just speaking with him the way she did was slumming for someone like her.
“You don’t look happy to see me,” she said, her voice taking on that slight whine only a royal woman could affect so perfectly. It always made Charlie want to roll his eyes like a school girl. She was foolish to be talking to Charlie in such a way with Brad Milner present, even if he was just an old drunk.
But her constant hanging around could get him in trouble enough. To disrespect her would be even worse. He smiled his bartender smile. Nice, but just a bit too tight in the lips to be genuine. For a moment he forgot about the unease he’d been feeling because of the peculiarity of the old man, and a new unease took its place.
“Always a pleasure, Lady Nightborn,” he said.
Merin ran her tongue out over her red lips, leaning forward over the bar even more, pushing up her breasts in hopes that Charlie might glance down at her low-cut shirt. He didn’t. This woman was a bear trap waiting to be stepped on and snapped shut around his ankles. A married royal with a taste for a common country boy. That kind of situation always ended badly for one of them, and it wouldn’t be the married royal. He had been careful with her. Very careful. Gently ignoring her advances without pushing hard enough for her to take offense. By the time the hour reached noon the next day, he would wonder if the snapping of the bear trap weren’t inevitable.
The Sorceress sighed lightly, sending a puff of rose-scented breath his way. Somehow, he hated it almost as much as he hated Milner’s. Almost. “I’m in town for the next week or so,” she said, her lashes flapping like a hummingbird’s wings.
That was when it happened. Had Charlie not been so distracted, he would have seen the old man begin to tremble under his old gray cloak. He would have seen the black redness flash behind his eyes. He would have seen him remove his wand from beneath his cloak and aim it at the young royal Sorceress. He would have been able to stop him, and maybe avoid everything that happened next. Maybe.
Milner didn’t make a sound as he carried out the deed. No rebel yell or cry of fury. He just held the wand tightly in his old wrinkled hand and shot a bolt of what looked like lightening from the end of it, brightening the room with a flash. It struck the Sorceress right over her heart. Charlie had time enough to see her body jerk, her eyes go wide, to think what the hell? and then the Sorceress slumped in the barstool and fell to the floor with a thump.
His eyes snapped to the old man, whose face was twisted like that of a demon’s from hell. Heat seemed to be pulsing from him, rolling off in noxious waves. Charlie acted without thinking. Again, it all happened so fast. Milner’s eyes—not Milner’s eyes, the eyes of a devil—lingered on the dead Sorceress for a minute, then they flipped to Charlie.
“Rich bitch,” the old man said, spitting the words out like acid. He gave Charlie a grin that made his stomach flip and his skin prickle. Then he aimed the cheap wand at him, that dark thing still lurking behind his glassy eyes.
The Stone that hung on a necklace around Charlie’s neck grew hot and cold at the same time, burning him a little where it hung over his chest, tucked into his shirt, pulsing against his skin, where it had been since the day he’d received it. He looked at the old man and thought, he’s going to kill me, and before the man could do so, Charlie’s right hand came up and clenched into a fist.
And with his secretly gifted Magic, he crushed Brad Milner’s windpipe without ever touching his throat. There had bee
n no time to retrieve his wand. He really wished there had been, though it probably wouldn’t have mattered anyway.
His heart did a standstill as he leaned over the bar, breathing harshly, his chest heaving up and down, staring at the two dead bodies lying on the shiny wood floor. A Highborn lady and an old drunk. Today was going to be even longer than he thought.
He was going to have some explaining to do.
CHAPTER TWO
The Sorceress crossed one leg over the other and folded her delicate hands in her lap. “I appreciate the offer, father, but I don’t want the job.”
Syrian Stormsong looked at his daughter with disapproval, only slightly overshadowed by the grief in his purple eyes. He was silent for a time before speaking, choosing his words slowly, as was his way. “You are the only one left,” he said. “I have a kingdom to run. I would do it myself if I had the time.”
Surah’s face was impassive, her features relaxed and smooth. She wanted to tell her father that sitting in front of a fireplace in his office all day and mourning over the death of his son was not running a kingdom. It was not, in fact, productive at all. He was a man whose only talent was delegating responsibility to others, and she had been doing his bidding for nearly a thousand years without much protest. But things had changed. Surah couldn’t say exactly what those things were, but she could feel the difference all the same. Her brother was gone now, and when she had come to her father, asking of him something for the first time ever, he had denied her any assistance. It didn’t matter that her brother’s murderer had met his end without her father lifting a hand. What mattered was that her father had been unwilling to lift a hand, and she would not allow him the guilt-trip he was attempting.
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