by Selena Kitt
Warriors, Winners and Wicked Lies
Contents
LOOK FOR THIS BOTTLE OF HOT SAUCE
Warriors, Winners and Wicked Lies
Pinocchio - WARRIORS (Military) by Selena Kitt
A Modern Wicked Fairy Tale: Pinocchio A Modern Wicked Fairy Tale: Pinocchio
About the Author
Her Stepbrother, Her Hero - WARRIORS (Military) by Terry Towers
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
About the Author
Seal'd Perfection - WARRIORS (Military) by KB Winters
1. Kat
2. Kat
3. Jace
4. Kat
5. Jace
6. Kat
7. Kat
8. Jace
9. Kat
10. Kat
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Temptation - WARRIORS (Military) by Lisa Carlisle
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
A Note from the Author
About the Author
War Hero - WARRIORS (Military) by Alana Hart & Marlena Dark
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
About the Authors
Spring Tide - WARRIORS (Military) by Tami Veldura
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
About the Author
Lucky Break (Reedsville Roosters) - WINNERS (sports) by Holley Trent
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
About the Author
Cade: Fire And Ice - WINNERS (sports) by Jessica Lake
1. Ellie
2. Cade
3. Ellie
4. Cade
5. Ellie
6. Cade
7. Ellie
8. Cade
9. Ellie
10. Cade
11. Ellie
12. Cade
13. Ellie
14. Cade
15. Ellie
16. Cade
17. Ellie
18. Cade
19. Ellie
20. Cade
21. Ellie
22. Cade
23. Ellie
24. Cade
25. Ellie
26. Cade
27. Ellie
About the Author
Anaconda - WINNERS (sports) by Minx Hardbringer
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
About the Author
Stolen Goods - WICKED LIES (secret baby) by Lola White
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
About the Author
Celine and the Bear - WICKED LIES (secret baby) by Aurora Woodlove
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
About the Author
Fated - WICKED LIES (secret baby) by Rowena
1. Nina
2. Brent
3. Nina
4. Brent
Epilogue
About the Author
Never Trust a Bad Boy - WICKED LIES (secret baby) by Minx Hardbringer
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
About the Author
More From Excessica!
Copyright
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AUTHORS
Selena Kitt
Terry Towers
KB Winters
Lisa Carlisle
Alana Hart & Marlena Dark
Tami Veldura
Holley Trent
Jessica Lake
Minx Hardbringer
Lola White
Aurora Woodlove
Rowena
Minx Hardbringer
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Pinocchio - WARRIORS (Military) by Selena Kitt
A Modern Wicked Fairy Tale: Pinocchio A Modern Wicked Fairy Tale: Pinocchio
Woody didn’t like to lie. Unfortunately for him, he’d gone into the wrong profession for such honorable intentions. Maybe that was why he never really ended up tying himself down to any one girl—he could never tell her the truth. Not that any of that mattered now.
“Get out of bed, you lying, lazy bastard!” His father pounded incessantly on Woody’s door with his ham of a fist, shaking the whole house. “The clinic just called and said your appointment is at one! It’s already after noon!”
Woody grunted, grabbing the comforter and rolling away from the sound. He had no intention of going to the clinic, now or ever. That had been the whole point of the lie. His room was dark, quiet, the windows intentionally covered with thick blankets, muffling the noise on the street.
Everything out there, on the other side of the door, was too harsh, bitter and raw. Every bit of light—from the steady green power on his laptop to the perpetual blinking 12:00 of his alarm clock—had been camouflaged with electrical tape. The big fan he’d dragged up from the basement and dusted off buzzed and oscillated behind him, drying the sheen of sweat on his back.
He’d been dreaming again. In them, he was torn apart again and again, and while it filled him with a horrible feeling of dread, but there was no pain. He didn’t feel the pain until he woke.
BAM BAM BAM
“Don’t make me come in there, son!”
He wasn’t worried. The door was locked. Although Gustavo Woodyer, even at the age of sixty-four, could probably have broken it in half with one well-aimed martial arts kick, given his years of experience. But he wouldn’t. He loved his little house—he’d built it himself from the ground up—and like any carpenter, his pride was great.
“Fuck off!” He pulled his covers over his head as if it could shut out the world, preferring the dream world, in spite of its horrors, over the stark pain of reality. At least in his dreams, he could still hear Cricket talking to him. If Woody closed his eyes, he could see the man’s signature, sideways smirk as he tapped his finger on the tip of his big, crooked, Italian nose before imparting some gem of wisdom.
“You can take the Boss.”
Woody sat up, staring at the door. The “Boss” was a candy apple red 1969 Ford Mustang Boss Fastback. It had only twenty-three thousand original miles on it and his father drove it—slowly—to car shows and back. He didn’t let anyone else drive it, ever. He just kept it in the garage and rubbed it down with a cloth diaper. Permission to drive the Boss? It was like getting picked to pilot the space shuttle.
“What time is it?” His voice was hoarse as he unwrapped the long sleeved t-shirt tied around his head. He hadn’t done much but grunt yes or no since he returned home. He had a horrible metallic taste in his mouth.
“Come on, son.” Another knock, this one softer. “Buck up. Shower. I’ll leave the keys on the table.”
He collapsed back into bed, covers drawn over his head again, determined to go back to sleep at least until his stomach insisted he raid the fridge. Getting up was the very last thing he wanted to do. Going to the clinic was even below that on things he was interested in pursuing.
But if his father was giving him permission to drive the Boss…
Woody unlocked and opened his door, squinting at the brightness, even in the dim hallway. He took a moment to grab a bottle of Vicodin off his dresser before staggering to the kitchen, finding the keys just where his father had promised, along with a twenty-dollar bill and a sticky note that read, “Gas it up.” Shading his eyes against the light, he saw his father’s pickup was gone from the driveway. His head throbbed. He ran the water in the sink, filling a glass and knocking back four of the Vicodin. The clock over the microwave read 12:27 p.m. He didn’t have a lot of time.
It took him fifteen minutes to shower and shave. He wore a towel around his waist back to his room and picked through the clothes piled in a laundry basket at the end of his bed, doing a sniff-test on each until he found a pair of jeans and a camouflage tank tee he thought would pass. Luckily, he had a few clean boxers and a couple pairs of rolled up socks still left in his drawers. He ran a comb through his dark, wavy hair, frowning at his reflection—it was getting far too long.
He grabbed his lightweight camouflage jacket off a chair stacked with dirty clothes, shrugging it on and catching a glimpse of a pair of dog tags hanging off the corner of the dresser mirror. The stab of pain in his gut was like a hot poker. He actually had to catch his breath, putting a shaky hand on the edge of his dresser to steady himself. Woodyer, Levi. Those were his own, of course. Crick, Bernard.
Cricket.
“Don’t do it, Captain.”
He heard Cricket’s voice in his head now, and not just when he was dreaming. He had just laughed at Cricket’s advice. Chirp, chirp, chirp, that’s all you do, little cricket!
“You arrogant fucking asshole.” He spoke to himself in the mirror, the hatred in his own eyes almost too hard to meet, even in reflection. He had to turn away.
The Boss was in the garage. His father rolled it out every other week to hand wash and wax it. There wasn’t a spot of rust on it, but this was Florida, so that was to be expected. He slid behind the wheel, more thrilled about anything than he’d been in months. It purred to life when he turned the key in the ignition and he smiled, resting his forehead on the steering wheel and closing his eyes. The Vicodin was beginning to work, easing the pain in his head, neck and spine, at least momentarily. It would only last maybe an hour at most, but they were moments of blissful forgetfulness.
It would be good to just stay right here, he thought. He contemplated doing just that. If he closed his eyes long enough, he would just drift away. The garage was still closed. The car would purr like a big cat stuck in a cage until the gas ran out and he would sleep, dreamless, forever. But what if it isn’t dreamless?
It wasn’t the thought of not reaching his twenty-seventh birthday or not finding out how Game of Thrones ended—that show was the only thing that got him out of his bedroom on a regular basis aside from food and if George R.R. Martin didn’t finish the books soon, he might have to pay the man a little visit—or even the awful thought of his father discovering his lifeless body that stopped him. It was not knowing if he would dream. He didn’t want to die dreaming, his last memory of the man who had died on his watch because he had been…
“An arrogant asshole.” He mumbled the words, lifting his head and finding the garage door opener tucked under the visor. If he was going to do it, a bullet to the head would be quicker. And he wouldn’t have to think. Or dream.
Don’t do it, Captain.
Cricket’s voice followed him, wherever he went.
The door rumbled upward, making him blink at the brightness and dig his sunglasses out of his jacket pocket, but his head wasn’t throbbing. At least, not like it had been when he’d woken up, a long-sleeved t-shirt still tied around his head, holding his jaw closed like someone in an old black and white movie suffering a toothache. It was either that or the half a tennis ball shoved into his mouth he used to keep his teeth from spasming so much in the middle of the night it woke him out of a drugged sleep.
Let’s ride, Captain…
He blasted the radio—Led Zeppelin was on the classic rock station wailing The Immigrant Song—and rolled out to the end of the driveway, lifting his hand to wave at the neighbor lady, Mrs. Lampwick, trimming her hedges as he stopped to hit the garage door opener again, closing the door behind him. She’d always been a busybody, telling his dad every time he had his friends over in high school when he wasn’t supposed to. She didn’t wave back. She just stood and watched him drive by, hedge trimmers in one hand, the other pressed to the top of her floppy hat l
ike it was going to run away. He could almost hear her thinking she was going to tell his father about this.
“Go ahead, you dumb cow,” he muttered, rolling down the driver’s side window—they were the crank kind, old school—hoping she could hear Robert Plant screaming about ice and snow. “I’ve got permission… this time.”
The hospital was just half a mile as the crow flies, but he took the long, scenic route around the Crocodile Lake refuge. It was a pretty drive, ducks floating on the glass-like surface of the lake, in spite of its dangerous name. Rush’s Tom Sawyer came on the radio, lifting his spirits even more. He gulped fresh, hot, humid Florida air, the wind blowing his too-long hair away from his forehead. There was nothing finer than driving a muscle car with the radio blasting—unless there was a hot girl beside you. Or you were heading out to pick one up. The last time he’d driven this car, it had been just like that, he remembered with a hint of smile.
Linnea had been as pretty as her name, a long, tall, cool drink of water who had turned his head in Pre-Calculus. He probably would have continued craning his neck like every other guy in his class if their teacher, Mr. Voss, hadn’t paired them up one afternoon to go over imaginary numbers. By the time he had explained the problem to the struggling blonde, Linnea had looked at him with a kind of grudging admiration before calling him an arrogant ass—and she’d been right, of course.
Being an arrogant ass would be a recurring theme for him throughout the years, after all.
But she’d said yes two days later when he asked her out. And she’d said yes two months later when he asked her to the junior prom. But he hadn’t picked her up in the Boss that time. That had been senior prom—when she’d finally said yes to the thing he’d been thinking about doing to her for nearly two years. He didn’t remember much about the sex, strangely enough, considering it had been his first time, and hers too—but he remembered picking her up in the Boss, her eyes shining as he took her hand, his corsage already wilting on her wrist in the Florida humidity, her parents waving at them from the front lawn, mother with a camera dangling around her neck, father with a forced smile on his face.