by Mark Henry
Parts & Wreck
Mark Henry
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Mark Henry. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
2614 South Timberline Road
Suite 109
Fort Collins, CO 80525
Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.
Edited by Alethea Spiridon Hopson
Cover design by Curtis Svehlak
ISBN: 978-1-62266-367-5
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition November 2013
Table of Contents
Parts & Wreck
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Don’t miss these exciting Covets…
For my snarky sisters in erotic public readings.
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Chapter One
Wade Crowson leaned against the counter and stroked the silver asterisk embedded in the lacquered wood with deliberate sensuality—women couldn’t resist his hands, something about the size of them, and so he brought them to their attention at the slightest indication of interest. It was kind of a thing. He gazed into the eyes of the beautiful barista—a possible overstatement, as the girl had tried so desperately to skewer her loveliness with various rings, studs, gauges, and even a pair of metal horns on her temples. Still, she was a distraction, and Wade was in desperate need of one of those.
“Horns?”
“Yeah, horns.” The girl flipped her dreadlocks over her shoulder and countered his gaze. “You like ’em?”
“I don’t know, yet. Haven’t made up my mind. I’m trying to assign meaning to them, but maybe I’m wrong.”
Horns narrowed her eyes in a playfully suspicious way. “What do you think they mean?”
“Tricky question. If I come at you with the obvious, how likely are you to let me get inappropriate with you when that last customer over there clears the hell out?” Wade stabbed his thumb in the direction of the typical coffee-shop detritus, a writer hammering out words on a laptop, lips locked on the straw of a large coffee, sucking at it like a teat.
Horns suppressed a giggle. “We’ll see.”
She slipped his double espresso across to him and he made a point to brush her finger as he accepted the demitasse. They lingered there for a moment, touching, skin warming like excelsior about to catch fire. Somewhere between the studs and the bullring in her nose, a flush of embarrassment spread across Horny’s cheeks.
As he backed away, he gestured in the direction of the writer. “Want me to get rid of this guy?”
“Shh!” the girl hissed, peaking from behind the chrome machine to see if the writer had heard. When he didn’t look up she turned back to Wade and bit her lip, looked him up and down two times as he retreated to a table in the back.
Wade was fully aware of his effect on women and also his need to be with them, to burn through the energy and tension that built up on assignments. Nothing set him right like great sex, preferably free of encumbrances and low on the emotional attachments—that was a lot to hope for and mostly he ended up settling for the messy disentangling, the sneaking away in the middle of the night back to his apartment, quiet as a tomb.
At this stage in his life, being a bit of a playboy suited him.
Setting the steaming cup on the table, Wade ducked out of the messenger bag and dug through its contents for his tablet, readying for a little research. Something to help him to dissect their latest crisis.
“Hey baby.” A woman’s voice drew Wade’s attention back to the counter.
His quartermaster, Quince, flirting with the same girl—it wasn’t the first time—and seemingly to much greater effect.
Everything about Quince was compact and practical, but she had the moves. She pivoted her body sideways, leaning against the counter and crossing her feet so casually you’d swear she knew the barista from way back. Quince kept her hair close cropped to her skull, wore as little makeup as possible—colors sullied her perfect coffee complexion, she’d once said—squinted chronically, and kept her mouth so tight, it was difficult to tell when she was actually disgusted—it simply didn’t look any different. But when she was on the prowl, she turned on a light inside her and her face seemed to change.
“You just hate to miss out on some action, huh?” Wade nodded knowingly. Although what he knew exactly was questionable.
“Opportunity knocks. I answer.” Quince threw a wink and her business card in the direction of the counter and dropped into the seat opposite. That they would occasionally vie for the same woman was of little consequence—bros before hoes, or something like that. Wade liked Quince. She met just about all of his qualifications for the perfect friend. Straightforward, no bullshit.
Quince sipped her espresso, her eyes rolling in the back of her head, and set the demitasse back in its saucer roughly. “But it usually starts with drinks up at the Bait and Tackle and ends in tears…hers.”
Wade chuckled, nodded. The Bait and Tackle was a pretty notorious lesbian bar, known for frequent brawling and a fantastic brunch, but you didn’t hear that from Wade—try the chorizo and quail egg empanadas, they won’t disappoint, and for safety reasons, please tip your waitress.
“You should come with me some weekend. I’ll introduce you to Mona. Muy picante trisexual girl.”
“Trisexual?” Wade laughed. “She’ll try anything once?”
“Yeah, you heard that one then? Well how about this, Mona’s good at getting other people to try anything once. In particular, a certain proclivity that she seems to be uniquely into. I’m telling you, Wade. You won’t be the same. She’ll expand your world. You might want to get yourself a vacation day to recuperate, also salve.”
“Whoa I’m not really interested in having any part of my body expanded.”
“Ah well, up to you.” Quince shrugged and leaned back to blow a kiss at the barista and after eliciting a blush, spun back around. “If you change your mind, you hit me up. Mona’s always looking for new recruits, and boy would she love to get her tools on you. She’d tear you up.”
“Not gonna lie, Quince. There are days when I deserve that kind of abuse.”
“I’ll bet, and often.” She glanced at the tablet on the table in front of him. “You had any luck?”
Their hunt for the demon that killed Wade’s last partner, Rachel, was still in the early stages, though he more than suspected it was the same who’d killed his first partner, his wife, Catherine, and before her, his father.
He clicked on the screen, shaking his head. “Nah. Just started.”
“Well…” Quince dipped her hands into the backpack she’d set beside them and retrieved a massive leather tome. She slammed it on the table between them. “I think this’ll help.”
“The Dictionai
re Infernal.” Wade glanced around behind him to see if the writer had taken notice. The man’s head was bowed, his fingers still clacking away at his laptop ferociously. “You wanna do this here? Not back at the office?”
“Neither. I want you to shove that book in your bag and hunt for a name some other time. I got somewhere special planned to take you.”
…
Well on her way to an achievable goal of plausible sanity, or at the very least, a status change from shitballs crazy to run-of-the-mill eccentric, Lucid Montgomery leaned back on the sofa and kicked her feet up on the coffee table.
As of last week, she’d been in her apartment for a month longer than a baby inhabits a womb and it even had a view of the Puget Sound—if you stood on your tiptoes in the bathroom and cocked your head just right. Last time she checked there wasn’t much of a view from a uterus—advantage Luce. She’d even secured a job interview at a car-dealership parts department which, while not exactly lucrative, sounded doable if she could keep her imaginary friend Hitch from bugging her every second.
At the thought he strode from the bathroom, looking as smug as usual. Part thug, part aristocrat, Hitch’s face was all angles and ice and completely breathtaking. Tall and thin but not her type in that she preferred her men to be less…see-through.
More importantly, Hitch was a notoriously squirrelly negotiator.
But he could be plied.
He enjoyed a few earthly things: the überhot reality show Real Widows of Denver; soccer (though he refused to call it that—it was “football” apparently); and, possibly his favorite, watching Luce humiliate herself in various social interactions. On this particular night, she’d intentionally lost a bet as to which grieving widow would pound the other’s face into a buttery bowl of pierogi.
“If you win,” Luce said. “I’ll do your damn speed dating, but you have to lay off the Siamese twin act so I can secure this job.”
“Fine, I’ll step back, a bit,” he said, brusquely. “Who’s your horse?”
It had been obvious from the beginning that platinum-blond cougar Shelly Donahue was a loose cannon, but Luce opted for the selective mute with the huge breast implants, Annabeth.
“You gotta be kidding me,” Hitch had said. “Annabeth pats butter onto her toast like she’s patching up a child’s scuffed knee. A woman so fearful of smearing isn’t going to pound someone’s head into a plate.”
I shrugged. “It’s all building up inside her, she’s gonna explode. Watch.”
Hitch took the bet greedily and when Shelly turned out to be the culprit, leaving Roshanna’s fake eyelashes spiked in the potato dumplings like a pair of blue spiders, he laughed maniacally. “You must pay for your crimes against the imaginary…with speed dating.”
“Damn you!” Luce laid her disappointment on thick, hoping Hitch wouldn’t catch onto her ruse. “But remember, you have to stay away for a while.”
…
“This doesn’t have anything to do with that girl who likes to put things places, does it?” Wade asked, wincing.
“What? I don’t play the pussy-trap game; either you like it or you don’t. We’re going somewhere you can impress your considerable charms onto some potential lady friends. And by friends, I do mean women you’d consider putting it to on a semiregular basis, preferably with an exchange of ideas over coffee, cocktails, and/or dinner.”
Wade shook his head. “How do I let you derail me into your schemes…every time?”
“It’s a gift,” Quince said, raising her eyebrow in confrontation. “Don’t deny that my plans don’t usually end well. They always do. Always. Now come on.”
The doors opened and instead of drifting off with the crowd into the upscale South Lake Union area of bars and restaurants, Quince dragged him west toward the last of the remaining warehouses and a windowless, brick building called Weiners.
“A hot-dog place?”
“Nope.” Quince didn’t clarify, but Wade did notice a rainbow flag twittering over the door.
He shrugged. After the day he’d had a drink wouldn’t kill him, even if he had to turn down some indecent proposals—not that a come-on from a man would bother him. Any attention was at the very least flattering, as long as they weren’t too…aggressive.
But as they pushed the swinging door into the bar, a dark cloud of dread descended in the form of a swarm of women, standing in line at a table manned by an aging sorority girl in a sweater set and pearls, pointing with her pen and jotting down notes on a clipboard. A similar table seemed to be set up for the three men in the room. One, a slight gentleman with a crew cut, windbreaker, and a crinkled paper bag in his hand was handed a name tag—Bruce—and then waddled to the bar, eyeing the girls sheepishly as he left. The looks on the women’s faces ranged from highly unenthused to desperately receptive. A second guy had opted for hustler wear. Shirt unbuttoned to just above his navel, gold chains, patchy chest hair trimmed to within an inch of the follicle. His orange glow tan more suitable to a can of furniture polish than a chest and worse, face.
“Oh Jesus, Quince. What have you gotten me into?”
She pointed at the line of women. “See them? Not one of them would turn a guy like you down. Not. One. The men that come here tonight will have zero up on you, physically. And their social game is clearly in the toilet.”
“There are downsides to being with me.”
“Oh yeah, but you have to keep those secrets, a need-to-know basis. And what these bitches need to know is that you’re an awesome catch. Plus, and this is coming from a straight-up lesbian—”
“I’m aware.”
“You look like you can lay some pipe.”
Wade sighed. “I won’t be objectified.”
“You will, because you love it.”
“And there’s the difference.”
Quince pushed him forward and as he strode toward the men’s table he couldn’t help but notice the ladies’ line seeming to turn in unison to watch him. If this had been a hunting trip, he’d have looked like he had chicken pox from all the red laser sights pointed on him.
“Like chumming for sharks with sashimi,” he heard Quince whisper as she breezed by to take up a position at the bar.
…
Speed dating isn’t for amateurs, it’s a whole other level of degradation. Go in unprepared and you might as well invest in therapy for the next year—maybe there’s a Groupon.
For one, you have to talk fast, which Lucid had absolutely zero problem doing, but constructing coherent sentences? Another story entirely. Her near-constant companion, Hitch, knew that, too, but that didn’t stop him from goading her into attending these so-called “singles gatherings,” mostly to watch her crash and burn and lose his shit over one awkward moment after the next.
Secondly, as an FYI, the frotteurists that attend get around the hands-off policy with the brilliance and dexterity of squirrels after birdseed. They will literally hang from a pipe on the ceiling to let their comb-over unfurl like a prehensile tail and brush an unsuspecting cheek.
No seriously. It happens.
Third, speed dating does not happen at fantastic bars frequented by the awesome and desirable. These places are looking for a little extra cash to supplement their lagging happy hours and are usually located across from the homeless shelter and/or the morgue so they can’t do anything about “the smell.”
Don’t bother asking.
Add to all of the above that Luce was late and you have the recipe for an amazing night…for Hitch. He loved nothing more than to see her frazzled and running around like a chicken with its head cut off—pecking around at the minutiae of the day haphazardly as to avoid anything that could be considered productive.
“You’re late.” The princess with the clipboard heaved the words out of her as if it were taking the absolute last of her energy. Blond hair swirled atop her head like a dollop of whipped cream—the girl seemed more comfortable in her pearl necklace than seemed appropriate. Luce figured girls like that got used
to milky-white droplets spattered on their throats early on. It was probably her best feature.
“I’m sorry?” Luce asked, glancing past her at the room full of desperation.
“Is that a question?” the girl snipped.
“Maybe?”
“Well, I suppose we can set up an extra chair at the end, but you’ll have to wait until all the other girls have met the guys before you get a chance. Also, I’m just going to let all our single gentleman know that if they’re not interested to please not waste mine or anyone else’s time by talking to you.”
“That sounds fantastic,” Luce grinned over her shoulder at Hitch, who shrugged noncommittally. A cocktail and a quiet corner sounded perfect to Luce. Plus, if she made herself as unapproachable as possible—no problem there—she wouldn’t be subjected to the torture of the mini-dates of Sodom and Gomorrah.
The princess, also known as Sandy—she tapped her Hello My Name Is name tag—gestured for Luce to follow and walked to the center of the bar, tables set up in a loop around her like a wagon wheel, women fitted on the outside closest to the walls—presumably to prevent bolting—and the far fewer men on the inside. Luce’s eyes fell instantly on the broad shoulders and dark tousled hair of a man twisting a lowball of whiskey on his table. He wasn’t her type—she wasn’t certain she had one, except for maybe Hitch—nor was he conventionally handsome, somehow too big, too brutish, like a club bouncer or a mechanic. Someone who didn’t mind getting dirty.
The more she thought about it, the more she realized she was talking herself into something, into a possibility.
Cut that shit out, Luce. You don’t need that kind of distraction, not now. You’re on a Goddamn mission. Get a job, keep it. Prognosis good.
“Oh come on,” Hitch whispered. “That guy is the best kind of distraction. Make a play. I dare you.”
Jesus. I’m not making a play for anyone. Luce seethed, gritting her teeth as she broadcast her thoughts. Just go find somewhere to blend into the wall!
…
Wade looked away from his momentary date—he hadn’t even gotten a good look at her—when the whiny voice of the organizer rose like a siren.