by Lila Dubois
Sorcha’s words were a softer version of Tim’s, but unlike him, she knew why Caera both loved and hated her music.
“I’m a coward,” Caera said.
“No, you were hurt and needed time to heal.”
Caera shook herself. The patter of rain and the dense, warm air of the kitchen were bringing on melancholy.
“It doesn’t matter anyway. The people playing tomorrow are all professionals, with recording contracts and years of experience. I’m not in their league.”
Sorcha looked like she wanted to say something, but she held her tongue, sipping her tea.
Caera struggled not to think about the past, about all the things she’d lost due to her own foolishness.
“So, is he a good kisser?”
“He is,” Caera said before she realized what she’d just admitted to.
Sorcha whooped in joy, and like that, the melancholy lifted from the kitchen. The room morphed into a cozy warm den of secrets and laughter, a place where women could talk about men’s kisses.
“Well, that’s nice, taking advantage of a distracted woman,” Caera griped.
“You were staring at the wall grinning when I came in. It wasn’t hard to figure out why.”
“I was?” Caera shook her head, a small smile curving her lips. “I was thinking about it.”
“Details.”
“He followed me out in the rain. Asked me if he could kiss me.”
“And you said yes.”
“Before I could, he kissed me. It was wonderful.”
“He’s handsome, charming in that silly American way.”
“And he has a cute accent.” Caera remembered the way he’d said her name, stumbling slightly over the Irish.
“He does.” Sorcha looked over her shoulder at the wall, but Caera knew it wasn’t the wall that interested her friend. It was Glenncailty. Even from a distance the building had a presence that could be felt, as if it were drawing you in.
Sorcha turned back. “He went to the west wing.”
“He told me.”
“I’ve told Elizabeth we shouldn’t use it. Should close up the whole floor, but she won’t hear it.”
“It’s because she’s never felt the cold. Never heard the voices.”
“Your Tim said he could see the outline of the door. Through the paint.”
Caera shook her head, glad the troubles of the bricked room were not hers to deal with. “He’s not my Tim.”
“He is.”
“I’ve barely spoken to him.”
“But you’ve kissed him.”
“A kiss can mean nothing.” Caera spoke with authority.
“Or it can mean something. Why don’t you enjoy him, while he’s here.”
“He’s not a bag of crisps to be enjoyed.”
“Sure he is.” Sorcha tossed her hair. “I plan to enjoy Paddy Fish.”
“Ah, Sorcha,” Caera sighed. “Will you wait until after the concert to break his heart? I can’t have him backing out because you’ve done him in.”
Sorcha nodded. “If you want.”
“Thank you.”
“If you give the American a chance.”
Caera looked at her friend in exasperation. Where Sorcha used sex as both weapon and shield, Caera’s past had made her wary.
“Sorcha…”
“Another kiss. See where it goes.”
Caera was quiet for a moment, then whispered, “He’s a musician.”
Sorcha stood and came around Caera’s side, hugging her. “That doesn’t mean he’s terrible.”
“I know that,” Caera said, voice small, “but I couldn’t trust him. I just…can’t.”
Sorcha said something more, but Caera was lost in her past, remembering the foolish girl she’d been. At seventeen, she’d been full of confidence and life. She’d aced her exams and would be attending Trinity College in the autumn. She landed a job serving chips and gravy to people she’d known all her life in the local pub. When she wasn’t serving, she was singing or playing. She’d been hired as much for that as for her serving.
She planned to study classical music and make her name as a traditional musician busking on Grafton Street between classes.
And then he’d walked into the pub.
Older, beautiful, with a lush Spanish accent and long hair that made the old men sitting at the bar frown, he was exotic as parrot in her little town in the west. He heard her play and sing, told her she was beautiful and talented. They were things she’d always heard from family and friends, but now a stranger was saying it. A beautiful stranger. A musician.
She’d run away with him, expecting to play beautiful traditional music from their homelands in smoky bars and jewel-small theaters. When they landed in Central Europe, she’d met his band, a rock group that cared nothing for traditional music. She’d confronted the man she thought she loved, bewildered, and he’d laughed and kissed her so hard her lips bruised against her teeth.
It had taken weeks for her to figure out that everything had been a lie and six months to spiral into the darkness of life as a groupie, until she found herself standing on the balcony of hotel, prepared to jump. Only her fear of the mortal sin had brought her down. She’d left, walked away with nothing. It had taken her another six months to work her way back across Europe, tending bar and serving to make money. When she reached England, she stopped, too ashamed the cross the Irish Sea. There she found a job at a hotel and quickly worked her way out of the bar into the catering and events office. When she finally returned to Ireland, she held her head high to hide her shame and declared that she now had a career in hospitality. She’d returned home only once, leaving when she saw the sadness and disappointment on her parents’ faces. Saw how her disappearance had aged her mother.
“Hey there, miss. There’s nothing good in dwelling on the past.”
Caera shook herself. Sorcha was rubbing her back.
“There’s plenty of good. I won’t make the same mistake again.”
“You know that not every man would treat you that way. Not every man is so cruel.”
Caera nodded, wondering if Sorcha would be so anxious to set her up if she knew all the details. Caera had told Sorcha much of her past as they lived and worked together to open Glenncailty, but there were things she was too ashamed to admit, even to her closest friend.
“I just want you to be happy.”
“I know.” Caera squeezed Sorcha’s hand, then stood, carrying her teacup to the sink and rinsing it out. “We should get some sleep. Tomorrow’s the big day.”
“What time is the management meeting?”
“Seven.”
“I’ll be there for part of it, but I want to keep my eye on breakfast, make sure our important guests get fed.”
“Okay, I’ll wake you up before I go.” Caera opened the kitchen door.
“Wait.”
She turned and raised her brows. Sorcha stood in the middle of the kitchen, the small overhead light making her hair glow copper and gold.
“Don’t punish yourself forever. You’ve suffered enough.”
Caera breathed deep, taking in Sorcha’s words. With a nod, she left, waiting until she was in bed to let the sadness out—a single tear that tracked over her temple, disappearing into her hair.
Note from Lila
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About Lila
Lila Dubois is a multi-published bestselling author of ero
tic, paranormal and fantasy romance. Her books have been nominated for many awards, including RT Book Reviews Erotic Novella for Undone Rebel and the Golden Flogger.
Having spent extensive time in France, Egypt, Turkey, Ireland and England, Lila speaks five languages, none of them (including English) fluently.
Lila lives in Los Angeles and loves receiving email from readers, though she is slow to respond since she recently created a tiny human. Can books featuring secret baby plots be far behind?
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eBooks by Lila Dubois
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The Glenncailty Ghosts, A Gothic Romance Series
1. Redemption
2. Lovers
3. Ghosts
4. Bones
Monsters In Hollywood, a Paranormal Erotic Romance series
1. Dial M for Monster
2. My Fair Monster
3. Gone With the Monster
Undone Lovers, a BDSM Erotic Romance series
1. Undone Rebel
2. Undone Dom
3. Undone Diva
Zinah, a Fantasy Romance series
1. Forbidden
2. Savage
3. Bound
Stand Alone Titles
Betrayed by Love
Briar Rose
Calling the Wild
Dangerous Lust
His Wolf Heart
Red Ribbon
Savage Satisfaction
Sealed With a Kiss
Lila recommends … Dakota Cassidy
Witched At Birth
A Paris, Texas Romance, Book 1
Dakota Cassidy
Chapter 1
“I’m warning you, Winnifred Foster. If you say or do anything today that sends our asses back to the pokey, I’ll zap you bald and give you a cold sore that makes you look like you have three lips,” her best friend Zelda groused as she futilely tried to snatch a pair of scissors from Winnie’s hand to prevent her from giving herself bangs.
Winnie hopped on the sagging mattress of her cot, looking down at her partner in crimes of abusive witch magic and current cellmate in witch jail with an accusatory glance.
She held the scissors up in the air. “I’m sorry, me? As in moi? If I say anything? Er, wasn’t it you who told Baba Blah-Blah she was wearing the wrong color leg warmers for that wart on her nose? Or was I just imagining things?”
Zelda swiped for the scissors again. “It’s Baba Yaga,” she corrected, reminding Winnie she’d purposely twisted their jailor’s name out of spite, and it was one of the reasons they were in magic jail to begin with. “You’d better get that right at Council so we appear respectful.”
“Call her whatever you like, Z, but you insulted her, not me. I love you, and while I totally agreed with your fashion assessment, and she did look hideous, I bet pointing out Baba DooDah’s flaws aren’t going to win us favor at Council today. She’s an elephant, my friend. She remembers everything.”
She hopped back off the cot when Zelda stopped trying to make a grab for the scissors. She was worried. They were up for review for parole today and she didn’t want anything screwing that up. She wanted out of this rank-smelling cell with its gray concrete walls and equally gray sheets.
She wanted to go to parties and laugh and drink champagne like they used to.
Drown herself in luxury and forget Ben…
Their cell was barren of any modern conveniences, especially those they could perform magic with—like mirrors. Locked up in Salem, Massachusetts, like serial killers in an old hotel built in the early 1900s that had been converted to a jail for witches.
Cellblock D was designated for witches who abused their magic as easily as they changed their underwear. Witches like her and Zelda.
It wasn’t hardcore like Cellblock X. That was a nightmare of mastermind witch criminals who didn’t just whip up a stack of money to spend at Neiman Marcus like she and Zelda were known to do—but real freaks who’d put the A in apocalyptic Armageddon.
From the outside, the hotel was glamoured to look like a charming bed-and-breakfast, complete with climbing ivy and flowers growing out of every conceivable nook and cranny. Inside it was barren, cold and ugly, and guarded heavily with magic, keeping all mortals at bay.
At the moment, it was just the two of them in Cellblock D. Just Winnie and Zelda and the humor-free staff of older-than-dirt witches and warlocks guarding them.
Zelda made a face, running a hand through her gorgeous red curls. “So, for the sake of our parole, let’s hope Baba Lamadingdong remembers our good behavior. Like the time you taught Big Sue Moses how to make eye shadow out of baby oil and cigarette ashes. Or when I selflessly gave Chi-Chi Gonzalez my extra Kotex pads so she could make some slippers for those Sasquatch-like feet of hers.”
Winnie smiled at her despite her worry about their sentencing. They’d tried. “We made the best out of our stay, didn’t we?”
Zelda twirled a long curl of hair around her finger as though she wasn’t worried, but her next question was riddled with concern. “Do you think we’ll get parole today?”
Winnie avoided the question—one she’d been avoiding since they found out they were next up on the chopping block. She didn’t even want to consider not getting out of this hell today.
Instead, she pulled her bangs forward again, and murmured, “Look at my hair. It’s touching my nose, Zelda. My nose. I can’t be seen like this if we get out. I’ll just do a little.”
Zelda rolled her eyes. “Winnifred, you’ve never done anything a little. Remember the last time you cut your bangs?”
Winnie winced and mumbled into her collarbone. Okay. Sometimes when she was angry, things happened. “That was years ago. They rebuilt the building, and no one was hurt.”
“Fine,” she snapped. “Cut your bangs, but don’t come crying to me when you look like the dude from Dumb and Dumber.”
It was her nerves. She knew it was her nerves, but she couldn’t help herself. “You know what?” Winnie shouted, brandishing the shears under Zelda’s nose. “We’re in jail because of you! I wouldn’t have had to teach that beast Big Sue anything if not for you. And we’d have Kotex pads for days because guess what? We wouldn’t be in jail having to share anything if not for you!”
Zelda planted her hands on her hips. “Um, no. We’re in here because of you.”
Winnie’s mouth fell open. “No. It was definitely you.”
“You.”
“Nope, you.”
“Oh, my goddess!” Zelda yelled. “I didn’t sleep with Baba Yaga’s precious nephew. That was you!”
Oh the guilt. And the heartache. But she wasn’t going to tell Zelda how much it still hurt to think about Baba’s nephew Ben.
She’d call her an idiot. And she’d be right.
So she shot Zelda a coy look and batted her eyelashes to hide the hurt. “First of all, we didn’t sleep. We did plenty of things, but shuteye never came into play. And it was amazing. Probably the most amazing sex I’ve ever had. Second of all, how the hell was I supposed to know he was Baba’s nephew?”
Zelda’s eyes went wide with disbelief. “Um, well, let me see…did the fact that the man’s name was Benny Yaga not ring any fucking bells?”
“He prefers Ben and he used Yagamawitz—not Yaga,” Winnie defended, though he didn’t deserve defending.
But she still wasn’t sure if Ben not changing his last name to avoid the notoriety attached to the name Baba Yaga, the most powerful witch in the world, would have stopped her from falling for him.
Zelda nodded, her fiery hair falling around her shoulders. “And with good reason. Who’d willingly admit that throwback-to-the-eighties of a beast was related to them?”
Baba Yaga loved anything that had to do with the ei
ghties—loved it so much, she piped in Take on Me through the prison speakers as their wakeup call every morning at six sharp.
But Winnie wasn’t the only one responsible for getting them locked up, and she was happy to remind Zelda. “Well, you ran over your familiar. On purpose,” she accused, combing her bangs forward again in preparation for blast off.
“I did not run over that mangy bastard cat on purpose. The little assmonkey stepped under my wheel.”
Winnie let one eyebrow lift in that way she did when she was making a point. In the way she knew would make Zelda crazy. “Three times?” she inquired politely, batting her eyelashes again.
Zelda clamped her lips shut for a moment then conceded, “Fine. We’re both here because we screwed up. But I still think nine months was harsh for killing a revolting cat and screwing an idiot.”
Winnie’s gaze became distant and thoughtful. The way it always did when that night with Ben Yaga was mentioned. “He wasn’t an idiot…but I agree. We’re both guilty,” she replied as she went for the first snip.
Zelda held her breath and blew it out when Winnie put the scissors down and changed her mind with a shrug of her shoulders. “I really need a mirror.”
“In an hour you’ll have one, unless we do something stupid,” Zelda soothed.
Without warning, the magic level in the B&B changed drastically—the stench of centuries-old magic drifted to Winnie’s nose. She grabbed Zelda’s arm, her eyes wide.
“Do you smell it?” Zelda whispered, her eyes alert.
Winnie wrinkled her nose, looking around their cell. “I do.”
“Old lady crouch.”
“Old lady what?” Winnie bit down on her lip. Hard. “If you make me laugh, I will smite your sorry ass when we get out of here. What the hell is old lady crouch?”
Zelda’s grin threatened to split her face. Her fear of incarceration was clearly outweighed by her need to make Winnie laugh.
They needed to laugh again. Like they used to before they were subjected to soap-on-a-rope and thicker-than-cement bland oatmeal for breakfast.
“You know, the smell when you go to the bathroom at the country club…powdery old lady crouch.”