reflection 02 - the reflective cause

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  She hated the belt. It pressed across her neck in an uncomfortable place, itchy and suffocating.

  “Momma,” Julia whined.

  Her mother's chocolate eyes appeared over the front seat, such a contrast to the auburn hair held in her customary ponytail.

  “What is it?”

  Julia worked her small finger under the belt. “I hate, hate this stupid strap! I want to take it off!” She crossed her arms, huffing.

  Momma sighed, unlatching her belt, and turned in the front seat to adjust the neck-restraint portion of Julia's seatbelt. At once, Momma's scent assaulted her where it intimately combined with the perfume she always wore.

  Daddy said from the front, “Amber, sit back down. The belt's latched. She's just going to have to deal with it for another ten minutes.”

  Julia's eyes narrowed to slits. Daddy was so stubborn. His belt didn't bite into his neck because he was a Big Man! Ugh. Julia fumed.

  Momma smiled and began to turn, and Julia saw Daddy's face in profile, watching to make sure she sat down safely.

  He only took his eyes off the road for a moment.

  It was long enough.

  Twin beads of light bore down on their car as an impossibly large grill came to eat them, the chrome winking in the late-afternoon light.

  Daddy made a correction to the right, but that threw Momma on top of him, imprisoning their bodies in a macabre dance, the steering wheel sandwiching them together.

  As if in slow motion, Momma looked at Julia's father.

  The knowledge of their impending death appeared on their faces like an unspoken promise.

  Julia screamed as the truck slammed into the car, and the belt that she hated so much whipped against her neck and slammed her against the back seat with such force that the breath left her small body.

  She watched as her parents were crushed together in a final embrace.

  The metal colliding was an earthquake in her ears, and something wet and warm hit her face. She opened her eyes and her parents were… everywhere, their blood like a blanket that coated her skin and hair.

  Her brain howled, refusing to accept what was happening. Her vision clouded. Her neck and head throbbed, and her lungs were a burning inferno with a need to scream.

  The last thing she remembered was her mother's hair entwined in the steering wheel like so much spun copper.

  #

  CHAPTER ONE

  Ten Years Later

  Julia stuffed her wool cap down more firmly on her head and waded through the icy puddles on the way to her 1977 Chevy Blazer. Fall had edged into early winter, and the dampness of the rain had solidified into a dangerous sheet of ice.

  Julia had been prepared, and instead of wearing the latest Ugg fashion boots, she'd pulled on her XtraTufs. They had an unparalleled ugliness but did the job. She might keep her ass in the air instead of pegged to an ice puddle by wearing her trusty boots. She threw her backpack over one shoulder and balanced a steaming cup of coffee in her hand. When Aunt Lily had asked about the contents of the mug, Julia had lied through her teeth. Her aunt seemed to think caffeine was the devil's drink. Julia smiled at that. She was done growing, and besides, coffee was a mainstay of Alaskan existence. She shuffled to the driver's side and gripped the handle. Then her feet lost some of their purchase, and she slid to the right, her coffee sloshing out of the slit in the travel mug's lid.

  “Shit!” Julia said as a couple of hot drops landed on her wrist, scalding her.

  After grappling with the handle, she jerked the door open and slammed the palm of her free hand against the driver's seat, steadying herself until she could heave her backpack inside.

  But her breath stilled in her lungs when she saw what waited for her: a single rose, its delicate form in a beautiful, ethereal tangerine color, lay inches from where her reddened and chapped hand had slapped down.

  She'd almost destroyed it while saving her sliding butt from falling.

  A smile stole over her face, and she carefully put her travel mug in the cup holder between the seats and picked up the flower. There was no note, but she knew who had laid it there: her fiancé, Jason. Their relationship was a secret. Aunt Lily would have ten different kinds of cows if she knew how serious she and Jason really were.

  She looked around, her breath coming in white puffs in the crisp air. The snow having not committed itself to falling yet, the promise still hung in the air. It would be like him, Julia thought, to pop up just as she discovered his present and grab her from behind, twirling her around.

  But he wasn't there.

  Huh. She turned the keys and jacked up the heat all the way. In five minutes, she'd hit the road, head to Homer High. She was spoiled. Usually Jason picked her up, but today she had to head over to the DMV and get a stupid emissions test. It was amazing they even allowed her to drive her gas-guzzling truck. She sighed. Soon, she'd be with Jason.

  *

  School

  Julia tore off her multi-colored, itchy hat as she waltzed into the school. The familiar smell of kids, books, and lunch wafted across the air, the chill of late fall left outside the doors.

  She fluffed her champagne-colored hair, hoping to eradicate the hat head she'd tagged herself with on the way over.

  “Hey, bestie!” Cynthia cried.

  Julia laughed. Hadn't she just spent all day and a night last weekend with Cyn? She acted as though they'd been separated for months.

  “Hey Cyn,” Julia said, slowing down to let her catch up.

  As usual, Cyn was dressed to the nines: high heels, ridiculously tight-ass pants, and the latest off-the-shoulder top with a crazy zebra pattern. It made Julia dizzy looking at it.

  “What?” Cynthia looked at Julia's face.

  “Your top. It's like some kind of optical illusion or something.”

  “I know, right? It's hot, hot, hot.” She snapped her fingers after each word for emphasis. Julia rolled her eyes. There was no cure for Cynthia's Fashion Awareness.

  Julia considered herself fashion challenged. Yessiree. Irrefutably. Getting everything to match and be comfortable was of utmost importance.

  Of course, once Julia mentioned the zebra shirt, Cyn was honor-bound to give her the once-over, scanning from the top of Julia's head and working her way down. Julia had almost escaped the wrath when Cynthia's gaze landed like a lead weight on her boots.

  “Argh!” she shrieked in horror. “You wore your Tufs to school again! And don't give me any of that horseshit about how we're seniors and absolved of everything.” She rolled her eyes dramatically. “Fashion is the exception. And those”—she waggled her fingers at Julia's offending footwear—“are for… for…”

  “Gardening,” Jason interjected smoothly, his arm sliding around Julia's waist. He'd heard the XtraTufs speech before.

  “Don't you defend her, either!” Cynthia said.

  Jason, all mock innocence said, “Who me?” his hand to his chest.

  Cynthia's eyes narrowed to slits. “You're no help, Jason Caldwell. She could wear a shapeless sack over her whole body, and you'd still think she was gorgeous.”

  “Guilty.” He pecked Julia's head, which was still fuzzy from the hat.

  Julia leaned back against his chest, her head tucking comfortably underneath his chin, and sighed. This is where she'd wanted to be from the moment she opened her eyes—against him, soaking up his warmth, letting it seep into her bones and chase the coldness of the morning away.

  Cyn snapped her fingers in front of Julia's face. “Snap out of it, Jules!”

  Jason laughed. Julia was known to mentally wander. It had become an annoying theme lately.

  “Cranky witch!” Julia teased, taking a swipe at Cyn with her woolen hat.

  She ducked smoothly, accustomed to Julia's abuse. “Okay… so, did you finish that English paper we started on Friday?”

  Julia dug around in her backpack until she found a crumpled piece of paper at the bottom. She turned and slapped it against her locker, smoothing it with
her other hand. Jason's big hand was a warm presence on her shoulder, kneading it softly.

  “Are you kidding? Terrell will never accept that mess,” Cynthia said, throwing out one hip and putting a hand on it.

  Julia shrugged a shoulder. “It's a rough draft. Besides, keeping the standard low like I do ensures that I get gravy when I turn something in.”

  Julia smiled at her own awesome logic. School just didn't appeal. It was something she would survive until she could graduate. Jason was the one who would go to University of Alaska Anchorage. He was set with a full ride.

  Mr. Basketball. Julia turned to look at him and wondered for the millionth time why he'd want her. He was so gorgeous and she was so… her. It didn't matter that Cyn thought she was pretty. Cyn was her BFF, and that was what best friends did: cheerlead for each other.

  Julia still didn't have a plan. She knew she couldn't wait to get out of Aunt Lily's place and begin a life with Jason.

  Cynthia gave an elaborate roll of her eyes and caved in to Julia's reasoning. “You can try all your down-home, weasel-like charm on Terrell while Jason and I turn in real papers. Unwrinkled papers.” She cocked her brows up to her hairline.

  Looping her arm through Julia's, Cyn dragged her to her first class, the dreaded Language Arts. Everyone knew there was nothing artful about it. Jason laughed as the three of them trudged to class, arms linked.

  Read More

  VAMPIRE: ALPHA CLAIM 1

  a Brief Bites novelette

  Copyright © 2014-15 Marata Eros

  Copyright © 2014-15 Tamara Rose Blodgett

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights are reserved.

  Chapter 1

  Narah

  My legs are kicked up on the desk, the toes of my left combat boot stacked on the heel of my right. I lean my feet a couple of inches to the left and look at my boss.

  Kinda wish I hadn't.

  The tongue-lashing was going to be brutal, and not the fun kind. I just barely hold back a snort of self-serving comedy.

  “Narah,” Casper leans into the desk, edging a butt cheek on the only part not covered by my assortment of shit. My eyebrow cocks. Perturbed doesn't cover it. If I wanted a butt on my desk, I'd ask.

  “What?” I bark with anticipation.

  A vein in Casper's forehead throbs and I dial it back some. No need to bring the guy to heart failure.

  “What?” I repeat more good-naturedly, though both of us know I'm nothing of the sort.

  He sighs, scrubbing a palm over his face. Hair almost as white as swan feathers glows under the LED lighting in my tiny office, and his glacial eyes tighten, fighting for a view of my face over the top of my boot.

  I jack my feet down and stuff them underneath my desk. My fingers itch to go to my smart phone. Anything to not commit to this conversation.

  “You know we appreciate your skill set.”

  Blah, blah, stinking-blah.

  “But we can't have you pulling firearms on all your bounties.”

  My bottom lip pops out in a pout. “It was a very small gun, Casper.” I put my index and thumb almost touching.

  “Using manstopper ammunition?”

  He might have a small point.

  “Outlawed in 1898,” Casper adds.

  I shrug a bare shoulder, my tank top skin-tight against my small frame. I find loose clothes are handles to make a bludgeon against me easier. I nail the targets but if there's nothing for them to grab onto, so much the better.

  “I like antique weaponry and ammunition,” I say with deliberate nonchalance.

  “Really?” Casper says and I wince at the sound of his voice. “Let's run down the list of target fatalities.”

  Hmmm.

  “Target 103, lethal stabbing.”

  I lean back in my chair and cock my neck back, staring at the dingy ceiling. A water stain has spread out from the center in a pattern of copper lines that somehow resemble a flower opening.

  It's sort of like watching clouds outside, but inside.

  “Narah!”

  I sigh, answering the ceiling. “Yeah.”

  “Target 424, beheading.”

  Yeah, that'd been messy.

  “Again, I was in fear for my life,” I say, not sounding defensive.

  At. All.

  “Thirteen times?” Casper asks softly.

  My chin snaps down and I meet his eyes. Mine are big and golden hazel like a cat's, and that's why I hide them behind my aviator shades. The sun hurts like hell. I've always been sensitive to sunlight.

  I shrug. It'll get me nowhere to fight with Casper. Who has the nickname in the office of, The Ghost. No one says it to his face though. I fight a snicker.

  “We are the last profession for use of lethal force, you know. It's not goddamned 2015, when everyone thought all physical force was necessary in some capacity.”

  I'm in the wrong era, I muse with regret.

  “We are the last stand against the criminals of our time. When the police can't nail them, then it's up to us. But Narah,” Casper scrubs his head, his crewcut bristling from the contact, “we can't have you killing all the targets. They must be brought to justice.”

  And of course, if I kill a target, Casper doesn't get credits. That's what this is really about. I bring in the most targets in our office. I get results and he gets credits for my hard work.

  We stare at each other. I won't break and Casper knows it. “You're the finest bounty hunter we have. Your instincts are uncanny, and you never let being a woman get in your way...”

  I lunge to my feet and Casper jerks to his, eyeing me warily.

  Good, my desk is finally free of his ass.

  “Nothing about me being a woman comes into play here.”

  Casper shoots out an exhale like a cannon. “Everything about it matters. You're smaller, you're vulnerable to things a man could never be.”

  Rape is the clear inference.

  “You think a man can't be raped?” I bark out a laugh. “You think that my looks don't disarm. They do, Cas.” My eyes laser down on him and his shift away. “You know I'm a proficient, Level Ten.”

  “Nothing to sneeze at,” he concedes and opens his mouth to add more, perhaps dig his grave a little deeper.

  I raise my palm. Nothing to sneeze at. I can feel a royal conniption fit brewing. “No. If I've killed while gunning for a target,” Casper frowns at my wording which causes me to grin, “then they needed dying. Period.”

  Casper walks to my office door. “I'm sorry, Narah, I've done what I could, but the law states that there can't be more than ten sanctions in one quarter. You have thirteen. I got the bonus three waived.” He whips his palm in the air like he's performing a magic trick. “Now you'll have to go before the magistrate.”

  Fuck. They'd plug me a second ass after a first class reaming. If—if I could even bounty again.

  I jerk my leather jacket off the back of my chair and sling it on. A bright headache, a new friend of mine of late, settles into my temples with zeal. I press my fingers against my head.

  I hate not having a target. The chase is the one thing that makes my life worth living. No longer an outcast—always in the game.

  Now the rules are being threatened.

  And all I want to do is play.

  Read More

  Acknowledgments

  It's been since March 31, 2011, when my first book, Death Whispers, was published. I'd like to take this opportunit
y to thank each and every one of my readers. Without you, I would not have an audience for my work. Your support, recommendations, encouragement, and critical feedback have allowed my improvement as a writer and as a human being. Ironically, words are inadequate for expressing the depth of my gratitude. Please know how much your support has meant and will continue to mean in the future.

  Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

  Tamara

  Dear Ones:

  Danny

  Cameren: Without you, there would be no books.

  Thank you:

  My Readers

  Special thanks to the following: Beth Dean Hoover and Dii for all your help and support.

  About the Author

  Tamara Rose Blodgett is the author of over fifty titles, including her New York Times bestselling novel, A Terrible Love, and the #1 international bestselling TOKEN serial, written under the pen name Marata Eros. Tamara writes a variety of dark fiction in the genres of erotica, fantasy, horror, romance, sci-fi and suspense. She lives in South Dakota with her family and enjoys interacting with her readers.

  Connect with Tamara:

  Never miss a new release:

  SUBSCRIBE

  BLOG

  FaceBook

  Twitter

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE Beth

  CHAPTER TWO Merrick

  CHAPTER THREE Slade

  CHAPTER FOUR Merrick

  CHAPTER FIVE Slade

  CHAPTER SIX Beth

  CHAPTER SEVEN Merrick

  CHAPTER EIGHT Slade

  CHAPTER NINE Beth

  CHAPTER TEN Slade

  CHAPTER ELEVEN Merrick

  CHAPTER TWELVE Beth

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN Slade

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN Jeb

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN Merrick