Dude Interrupted

by ANDREA SMITH

  “I don’t intend to get involved with anyone,” I said to her bluntly.

  “This is the first time I’ve seen him ask for a private drink with any of the dancers, though. He might have plans for you.”

  “Please, Margo. He’s got to be a twenty-something biker. What could he possibly want with me?”

  “Hmm, that’s a tough one. Couldn’t be your looks or your body. I bet it’s your money he’s after,” she said, snickering loudly. “Yeah, that must be it.”

  I gave her my version of a dirty look. I wasn’t especially good at those yet. I was still learning.

  “Bikers around here are bad news, Diamond, even after hours. I don’t think you’re the type to fit in with that group. I’m no expert, but I’ve done enough time in clubs like this to know a little something. I don’t see you as a biker bitch, not even for someone as hot as Slate. He seems to have earned the respect of his colleagues, but I’ve heard stories about how bikers treat their chicks, you know? Pass them around to their buddies, discipline them in violent ways. Of course, maybe I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, by the looks of that eye. Did a biker do that to you?”

  “Of course not, Margo. Damn, give me some credit, please.”

  “I’ll be glad to, darlin’ just as soon as you tell me that whoever gave you that shiner is missing a gonad.”

  I lowered my eyes from her expectant gaze. Now, I was not only feeling like a piece of trash, but a pitiful one at that.

  “There, finished,” she said, spinning the chair around so that I could see the repair job.

  “Thanks, Margo,” I replied, softly. “Hey, don’t worry about me. I don’t intend to let it happen again.”

  “That’s my girl,” she said, smiling for the first time at me this evening.

  End of Teaser Chapter

  Who likes paranormal romance?

  It’s not what you think. I know lots of sub-genres get all rolled up into the “Paranormal” Genre, so I need to explain the particulars of my “Limbo Series.”

  Book 1, Silent Whisper

  For twenty-seven years, I’ve flitted through life clueless to the God-given abilities that lay dormant inside of me.

  In the blink of an eye, everything changed more than I ever could’ve anticipated.

  She changed it.

  Now I know that nothing is as it seems. I will never be the same again…but this isn’t my story.

  It’s hers.

  I’m just being forced to live it, resolve it, and ultimately try to move on after learning that our lives are going to be tangled far more than I would’ve ever imagined.

  My name is Parrish Locke. And I can see the dead.

  Silent Whisper is Book #1 in the Limbo Series. Be prepared for the unexpected.

  Prologue

  I fingered through my wind-tousled hair in front of the lighted mirror. I watched my forehead crease in its usual pattern whenever my frown appeared. I mentally chastised myself for encouraging premature wrinkling. It was a definite career killer in my line of work.

  Shit.

  No doubt about it. I was going to require a complete redo of hair and makeup. It wasn’t like we weren’t already nearly three days behind on this shoot, somewhere in god-forsaken West Virginia. Leonard, my agent at the modeling firm, was going to hear about sending me out on any more shoots like this.

  Hell, who was I kidding? I was lucky to get this assignment at the ripe old age of twenty-seven. These days, babies practically left the womb ready to stroll down the red carpet.

  I’d had this assignment with Mountain-Step Ski-Wear for the past three years. It wasn’t like I could be choosy anymore. I promised myself this fall would be my last shoot for this sponsor, maybe one of the last shoots of my career.

  Oh, that didn’t bother me. Not one bit. I had always known the day would come when it would be time to carve out a real career for myself, one that could take me to retirement age if I so chose. Yeah, I know—who at twenty-seven years of age really thinks and plans for retirement, right?

  I was single, fairly independent, and had the type of boyfriend that understood the practicality of my being a model as long as I could get the gigs. Ryan and I had been together for three years. Maybe using the word “together” was a bit of a misnomer. Let me clarify: we were together when I wasn’t on a shoot or he wasn’t photographing cutting-edge pictures in Africa, New Zealand, Alaska, Australia, and other such far-away places. Catch my drift? Yeah, he was a top photo journalist for Global Geographic. We had met on a shoot that involved me posing with wild animals. It was for a designer fragrance called “Jungle Fever.”

  Yeah. I know. Whatevs…

  At any rate, Ryan was apparently attracted to my scent - whether it was my “Jungle Fever” scent, or just my plain old ‘Parrish Pheromone #5’ aroma, he was ready to mark his turf, and guess what? I had no problem with that whatsoever!

  We had a great relationship: sexually and otherwise considering the amount of time we actually spent together. The important thing was that I was encouraged by Ryan. No wait. I was essentially blown away by Ryan and his eye for a great picture; along with his ability to totally capture it digitally. (What he did to me digitally was nothing to sneeze at either.)

  I totally let him fuck me after we had dinner together the first night of the shoot.

  Hey, we were in freaking Africa after all. It’s different there. I mean the whole pheromone/hormone thing is rampant in the air you breathe for Christ’s sake!

  Ryan totally got that I wasn’t into posing for glamour shots for the rest of my life—or even into my thirties for that matter.

  He schooled me in the art of photography and damned if I didn’t catch the fever right along with him. We probably spent as many hours in the dark room as we did in our bedroom in New York. It was epic—both rooms, I mean. Yeah, I know, everything is digital these days but not with Ryan. Maybe that’s why his photos are so passionate because his own craft goes into them from shoot to show.

  Ryan was thirty-one, just a few years older than me. He was my rock in all respects. He got me. I got him. We hadn’t made long-term plans because we didn’t need to. He had a passion for his career; I had a passion for his career. So much that I was ready to leave the modeling world and start working as his assistant on assignments; until I was ready to fly solo, that is. Ryan supported me on that 100%. I hadn’t been excited about anything like this, well… ever…

  Just then, Mark, the producer, knocked on the aluminum door of my trailer.

  “You decent?” he called out in his loud, brusque voice.

  “No,” I hollered back, “but I have clothes on if that’s what you’re trying to find out.”

  “Smart ass,” I heard him growl as he opened the door to my trailer and poked his bald head inside. “Shoot’s over for the day, technical difficulties with Mother Nature. We were supposed to have snow and it’s been momentarily delayed. Be back here tomorrow at 7 a.m. sharp. Luck is with us, a snow storm is blowing in as we speak. Should have some significant accumulation by dawn.”

  “Whatevs, Mark,” I sighed, glad that I didn’t have to fuck with hair and makeup any more today.

  “The limo’s ready to take you back to your hotel,” he continued. “Same limo will be there at 6:30 tomorrow morning to bring you back out here.”

  “Got it,” I said, grabbing my handbag and coat. “See you then, doll.”

  “Have a good evening, Parrish,” he replied, giving me one of his geezer winks.

  I was restless once I got back to my room. I was staying at one of the best hotels in Chester, West Virginia, the Mountaineer Inn. To say it was rustic was an understatement. The walls were paneled in frigging knotty pine.

  Yeppers! It was fairly depressing.

  I had no desire to spend what was left of the evening holed up inside, with barely a bar-and-a-half on my cell. The calls back and forth between Ryan and me were brief at best because
of the poor reception in this neck of the woods.

  I quickly changed into a comfortable pair of jeans, a pullover sweatshirt and my sweater boots. I grabbed the keys to my rental SUV and headed out. I’d heard some of the key grips talking about a club on the other side of the mountain that had fantastic home brew and the best deep-fried fish this side of the Mississippi.

  Hell that was good enough for this home girl.

  The weather front had already started. The wind had picked up considerably and the sleet was coming in sheets, hard and deliberate. Snow was supposed to follow within a few hours, but I’d be back safely in my knotty pine room at the Mountaineer Inn before it got really bad.

  The road leading over the mountain was two lanes, steep and twisty with a whole lot of narrow berm on the one side which didn’t sit well with my fear of heights. (I also had a fear of expansion bridges - but that’s another story.)

  The evening darkness was already seeping in and it was barely five o’clock.

  I had finally reached the crest of the steep incline and was slowly cruising down the other side that had a definite ‘S’ curve going on when I heard Ryan’s ring tone from my cell.

  Well, shit.

  I hadn’t talked to him today and wanted to; so against all published warnings and my own common sense, I reached over to where my handbag rested on the passenger seat, and started rummaging through it, taking my eyes off the road for just one split second.

  As I glanced back to the road, an eighteen-wheeler was rounding the bend on the incline and taking up part of my lane in the process. I quickly turned the wheel and hit the brakes, sending my rental car into a slippery, sliding, fishtailing path on the ice-glazed road.

  My hands clenched the steering wheel tightly, as I continued pumping the anti-lock brakes, which of course, simply felt as if they were frozen up and doing nothing to prevent the never-ending skid I was into.

  My vehicle left the road, careening over a ditch, bouncing fiercely enough that my head hit the roof of the vehicle with surprising velocity. Instinctively, I shut my eyes, feeling multiple points of impact as I took out a fence and hit several concrete tombstones. I heard and simultaneously felt the explosion of the air bag as it deployed thunderously against my chest and face.

  Fuck. I’m dead…

  I wasn’t sure how long I had sat inside of my vehicle, dusted with the white powder from the deployed air bag, in a hazy fog.

  I knew I was quite a distance from the highway that I’d slid off. The evening darkness blanketed the cemetery, and sheets of icy sleet continued to blow around my incapacitated SUV. There was smoke seeping out from underneath the hood.

  I slowly took inventory of my body parts. Everything seemed to be attached. Some wetness trickled down the side of my face. I ran my fingers against my cheek, capturing the droplets of blood from a cut somewhere on my head. I realized it must’ve been my own ring that had cut it when my head slammed against my fingers that had been gripping the steering wheel like a vise. The top of my skull was pounding with the pain that came with having had it slammed against the roof of the SUV.

  I unfastened my seat belt, moving mechanically; still very much dazed by the situation, unable to think clearly as to what needed to be done in order for me to get the hell out of this place and see about getting help.

  That’s when I saw her. A young woman standing there all alone in the cemetery.

  What the hell was she doing out in this brutal winter storm, wandering around in a freakin’ graveyard? It was beyond my comprehension, but still I was relieved that at least I wasn’t alone out here.

  She was standing off to the right, about ten yards from where my vehicle had slammed to a stop against a stone mausoleum. There was a light-post behind her that was next to the empty parking lot. It allowed me to get a better view of her.

  She certainly wasn’t dressed for this type of weather—no coat, no sweater, just wearing a plain black, tailored coatdress with hose and heels.

  The fuck?

  She beckoned for me to come over to her, which under the circumstances, I found to be a bit cheeky. After all, I was the injured party here, and it would’ve been nice if she had made the effort to come over to see if I needed help, or maybe call for emergency assistance. I wasn’t sure where the hell my purse had ended up throughout all of this.

  I managed to push the car door open, and slid out of the seat, my feet hitting the wet, slippery ground. I was dizzy, but the chick continued to beckon me over, as if she were in a hurry to get somewhere.

  Geez.

  Maybe her boyfriend had ditched her by the side of the road, but damn she had to be freezing cold.

  As I staggered closer to where she was standing, I could see that she looked to be in her early twenties. She had thick blond hair—it looked to be permed, because it was super curly, falling well past her shoulders. Retro chick, I guessed, but very pretty regardless.

  “Hi,” I called out. “I kind of slid off the road back there and my car isn’t going anywhere for now. What’s your story?”

  I saw her lips moving: but with the wind and the sleet, I couldn’t hear a damn thing she was saying.

  “Say again?” I called out as I got closer.

  She didn’t answer, but kept pointing to the headstone that she was standing next to, her hands still beckoning me to come closer. She wanted me to look at what was written on the grave marker apparently.

  Seriously?

  I did my best to squat down and focus my bleary eyes on the marker. There wasn’t a lot of light left, but enough filtered through from the lamp post that I could finally make out what was on it.

  Karlie Lynn Masterson, Born: May 15, 1965, Died May 29, 1987.

  Okay.

  Was this supposed to mean something? I looked back up to see a smile cross the young woman’s face as if I should totally understand what it was she wanted me to know, except that I didn’t.

  “Look,” I said, my head still throbbing. “I really need to get some help here. I think I need medical attention. Do you have a cell phone, or can you at least point me in the direction of the nearest house or business?”

  Her lips moved again, and I strained to hear what she was saying, but it was a silent whisper.

  “What?” I asked loudly, “I can’t hear what you’re saying…”

  “Let Dominic know,” she whispered. “Tell him everything.”

  I felt her words more than I heard them as she walked closer to where I stood frozen in confusion.

  “Okay, who the hell is Dominic?” I asked, “And what exactly is it that I’m supposed to tell him?”

  This chick was seriously freaking me out.

  She got closer and I couldn’t bring myself to move away from her. It was if some magnetic force had taken control of my body, and it was drawing her to me.

  “You need to tell him how I died,” she whispered loudly enough that for the first freakin’ time I didn’t have to ask her to repeat it. I totally wished that I hadn’t heard it.

  Holy shit… she’s a ghost?

  I put my hand up to my forehead, feeling the blood oozing out of the gash on my scalp. How hard had I banged it? Was I hallucinating here?

  “Uh, if you’ll excuse me,” I continued, trying my damnedest to get my feet to move, “I think I’ll pass on that. None of this makes any sense at the moment, and I’d really like to get the hell out of here.”

  I tried my best to move away from her, but whatever magnetic force was at play here, wouldn’t let me budge. She came even closer to me, and I felt the warmth from her radiate into me. It was then that I heard her whisper, “Move over, I’m driving.”

  I felt an immediate lightness envelop me as her body physically merged with mine. I felt my own body shiver and convulse at the intrusion, but there was no pain involved whatsoever.

  Unfamiliar warmth filled me entirely. I could feel a very strong tingling sensation as it did, causing me to blessedly become
numb to the pain that I’d been feeling in my head since the accident. Then the heaviness of her possession settled in as if it belonged there.

  Suddenly, I could no longer feel the elements of the wind and the sleet that had been assaulting my skin. I was shrouded in silent darkness as my body sank down into a comfortable slumber where there was no longer any pain or confusion.

  I was no longer in control of anything, but I wasn’t afraid at all. Instead I felt the clear realization of a new purpose seeping into my consciousness, erasing all the data banks belonging to me, and replacing them with something else… with someone else’s data banks. I somehow had the knowledge as I slipped into this strange abyss, that when I came out of it, I would be someplace else… would be someone else… and it would no longer be my life anymore.

  Who likes NA Suspense?

  Warning: This is not a romance. This is an experience.

  Southern Comfort prequel

  Synopsis:

  Welcome to Layton, Alabama. Population 11,000. Where the sweet tea runs through our veins, the air smells of cobbler, and the secrets lie so deep that not even the confessionals are safe anymore.

  Our community was tight-knit, friendly, and comprised of God-fearing Christians, many of who attended Sunday services at Briar Ridge Southern Baptist Church. That is, until Avery Dawson appeared.

  My name is Sunny Gardner, born and raised in Layton. I loved our small, quiet town. And then, one day, a man came into town and upended everything that I held dear to me. Shattered my life, really.

  This is my story. A story of struggle and triumph and, ultimately, how I saved myself and my community from the devil himself.

  Prologue

  Growing up in central Alabama had its perks believe it or not. Especially if you lived in rural Alabama, better known as the “sticks.”