by Cecy Robson
My frown bounces from his hand to the young woman whose face is now bright red with anger, humiliation, and possibly more. “Are you his secretary?” I ask her.
“No,” she answers. “I’m a car sales representative for Ford Nation―”
Oscar begins to talk over her, but it’s the stomping sound of quickly approaching footsteps that lures my focus. A woman with a pinstripe jacket and matching skirt storms forward, the quick motions of her long toned legs causing the edge of her skirt to brush above her knees and swing her hips seductively. Long hair flutters like a black silk sail behind her, revealing a face better suited for my wildest dreams. Sapphire blue eyes shimmer behind a thick layer of dark lashes, lighting her creamy white skin and full pink lips.
I spent the first two years following my completion of my masters in either a lab or boardroom packed with men in alternating stages of balding, and these last three months working eighteen hour days trying to rebuild an empire. I haven’t had the opportunity let alone the time to meet women. But if I knew women like her existed, I would have spared a moment.
Good . . . Lord.
I don’t realize I’m gaping until she stops directly in front of us and juts out her chin. “Problem?” she asks Oscar.
Oscar stiffens his posture. “No. I was just showing Mr. . .” He motions to me. “My apologies, what’s your name, sir?”
“Jonah,” I say, returning my full attention to the stunning young woman. I offer her my hand. “Evan Jonah.”
A smile eases along her face, revealing a set of perfect white and drawing more attention to her delicate features. “I’m Erin O’Brien, but I go by Wren,” she says, shaking my hand with a firm grip before releasing me and easing the smaller woman forward. “How can Penny and I help you today, sir?”
“I was looking for either an SUV or a truck than can handle this winter,” I answer, doing all I can to keep my eyes from trailing down her body.
“Then you’ve come to the right place. Penny, will you show Mr. Jonah―”
“Evan,” I interrupt, mentally kicking myself for morphing into a fourteen year old boy the moment my eyes locked on this woman.
“Okay, Evan,” she says. “Penny, please show Evan our latest members of the Ford family to get an idea what may fit his needs.”
“Of course, this way, sir,” Penny answers with a smile.
I reluctantly follow behind Penny. Only because it’s now obvious I can’t rip my eyes away from Wren. But as we reach a black Explorer my attention trails back to her and Oscar. They’ve moved away from the main showroom and closer to the rear offices. Yet that doesn’t stop me from hearing their exchange.
“What the fuck was that?” Oscar snaps.
My spine stiffens. I storm forward, ready to demand he apologize for using such foul language in front of a lady.
“You being a raging asshole,” Wren replies.
I’ll admit, her response gives me pause. And she doesn’t stop there. “Look, I know you have to compensate for your less than average-sized dick. But that doesn’t give you the right to mistreat Penny or pounce on every client she approaches. That’s bullshit and you know it.”
“Um, perhaps a truck will be more to your needs,” Penny says, motioning to the far section of the dealership and away from the heated conversation.
I’m not typically a voyeur. I also don’t typically interact with women who speak this way. But it’s not just Wren’s use of language that captivates me, it’s her strength, and her desire to protect her small friend.
“Where the fuck did you hear that?” Oscar responds. “I don’t have a small dick.”
Of all his possible retorts, this is the one he chooses.
“Suze,” Wren calls over her shoulder in the direction of the finance counter. “What was it you said about that night you went out with Oscar?”
The woman behind the counter scowls and holds up her pinky. Wren smirks. “Looks to me like you should have called her back.” She pats his shoulder. “My condolences to your man parts.”
She starts to walk away, pausing when she realizes I witnessed their interaction. She must know I heard her, but instead of making a quick escape or attempting pretend as if I didn’t, she marches toward me, keeping her head up. “I apologize, Mr. Jonah―”
“Evan,” I clarify as she reaches me. Good heavens, and there’s that smile again, stirring one of my own.
“Evan,” she repeats. Her eyes skip to her friend. “I see Penny is taking good care of you.”
“Actually, I thought perhaps you can take over,” Penny says. Her stare bounces between Wren and I, likely recognizing how entranced I am by her.
Wren tilts her head. “I don’t want to intrude on your sales pitch,” she says.
“You’re not,” she responds, carefully edging away. “I’ll take the next one. Honest.”
She watches her walk away, before placing her attention back on me. She considers me a moment, as if trying to figure me out, but then motions back to the Explorer. “This is the latest model in Ford luxury, capable of keeping you safe, meeting your needs, and packed with plenty of toys,” she begins.
I follow her as she leads me around the vehicle. The ease in her speech and her relaxed posture reveal a woman who knows her products and her job well. I question her about the vehicle’s most basic facts first: mileage, warranty, and safety features, before testing her intelligence further. She doesn’t disappoint, explaining the vehicle’s functions in great detail down to the engine’s construction, adding to my growing attraction to her.
“Would you like to take her for a ride?” she asks. She punches my arm affectionately, drawing my attention briefly away from me face. “This way you can see how smoothly she handles the road and then you can then say, ‘Wren, how did I ever survive without a Ford.’”
“I’d like that,” I answer, keeping my smile. This woman who appears more elite model than sales rep knows exactly what she’s doing. “Very much.”
“Good,” she says, pointing at me. “You’ll wonder how you ever got along without her.”
As I watch her walk away, I start to wonder that myself.
READ ON FOR AN EXCERPT FROM
Of Flame and Light
A Weird Girls Novel
Cecy Robson
Chapter One
You know it’s going to be a bad day when you wake up in the morning and the first word out of your mouth is “fuck.”
My right arm―or should I say my new arm generated after my real one was chewed off by a psycho werewolf (no, this isn’t a joke) ―buzzes me awake. That’s right, buzzes.
I do my best to hide my limb. Not just because it’s as white as alabaster. Or because of the fluorescent blue veins that run its length. But because it’s doing things I can’t control, like, interfering with my magic, glowing like a light saber, and now, making noise.
I lift my head, half-asleep, wondering how a wasp nest found its way beneath my pillow, but too exhausted to run away screaming, yet. If you were familiar my life and world, you’d understand pissed off wasps in my bed wouldn’t be the craziest, or scariest, thing that’s ever happened to me.
My eyes narrow at the quivering pillow as my haze clears. Maybe it’s because I’m tired, or maybe it’s because I’m bitter as all hell, but I can’t help thinking that the arm and the pillow are laughing at me. I pull my glowing and buzzing arm from beneath the fluffy white pillow and swear.
“Really? Really?” I ask it. “What’s next, singing and puppet shows?”
Apparently, my incandescent light saber arm isn’t a fan of sarcasm and proceeds to flicker on an off like a twisted strobe light. I shake it hard and smack it against the mattress for all the good it does. “Knock it off,” I tell it.
It’s not that I think it listens, or that I manage to control it―there’s simply no controlling this thing―but somehow the glowing recedes and so does the noise, and my arm resumes its “normal” death-like tone.
It’s quiet, no long
er casting light. I should be thankful, right? I should be happy, true?
Oh, I wish.
The color is startling, and contrasts horrifically against my deep olive skin. But its eerie tone and its unpredictability aren’t the only things that trouble me. There’s something wrong with this limb. It doesn’t belong on me. And in a way, it doesn’t belong in this world.
Maybe like me, it’s something that wasn’t supposed to be.
I sigh and clutch it against me. It feels like my old arm, the skin soft and smooth. It moves like my old arm—I’m not limited with either fine or gross motor skills. But it’s not―I don’t know―human.
When I lost my real arm, the Squaw Valley Pack Omega, created this new one using ancient werewolf magic. If I were a were, I think things would have been fine, peachy-keen, and all that good stuff. But I’m not a were, or human, or witch, or vampire, or anything. No, not even a little bit.
My sisters and I may look human, but nothing like us has ever existed on earth. And because of it, earth’s ancient magic seemed to really resent helping a weird girl like me.
I used to wield fire and lightning with ease, and catch glimpses of the future. I used to be badass. I’m no longer badass, and the only things I catch now are odd glances cast my way.
“Are you the punishment for my sins?” I ask my arm.
I don’t expect it to answer, but it does. Sputtering light and buzzing before abruptly ceasing its response and sinking into the mattress.
To anyone watching, this whole thing might be funny. To me . . . Christ, who am I fooling? Nothing’s been funny in a long time.
For a moment, I simply stare at it. There’s a part of me that wants to cry, wondering what it will start doing next. But I’ve already cried too long and too hard for what it has cost me.
Or should I say, who it cost me.
I scan the room. Nothing of Gemini remains. Not his clothes, not our pictures together. I even deleted and blocked his number. For all my arm disgusts me, I never expected it to disgust him more. After all, this was the werewolf who claimed me as his mate. The same male who swore he’d love me forever.
I suppose forever only counts so long as I didn’t change, so long as I remained perfect in his eyes. But I never claimed to be perfect, even if many believed I’d looked the part.
My arm flickers and zings, the electrified charge strong enough to startle me and slap any remnants of sleep away. Shit. No way am I perfect. Not by a long shot, especially with this thing constantly mocking me and reminding me of everything wrong in my life.
A sharp rap to the door has me glancing toward my right. “Taran?” my perky sister Shayna calls. “I heard your alarm clock go off. Want some breakfast?”
I lift the bane of my existence and roll my eyes. Alarm clock? Yeah, I suppose you can call it that.
“T?” Shayna presses.
“I’ll be right out,” I answer.
She pauses. “Good,” she says, sounding relieved. “I made plenty.”
It’s not that I want to eat. It’s that I know how worried my sisters are about me. So I sit with them when I can, and plaster a smile when I need to, but even that’s cumbersome which sucks. I don’t want my time with my sisters to be something of a chore. I love them. But I’ve learned some things can’t be helped.
My arm fires with its haunting glow. Ah, yeah, case in point.
With a groan, I slip out of bed, pulling on a fresh pair of panties and a bra before heading to my bathroom to freshen up. After a few swipes of mascara and some lipstick, I yank on a form-fitting red dress and shove my feet into a pair of platform pumps, doing my best to strut and not collapse back in bed. Yet even though I’m almost to the door, there’s one more thing I need. Most women won’t leave their homes without their cell phones. I can’t leave my room without my elbow-length gloves. It helps me hide the ugly appendage and the light show that accompanies it.
But now that my arm’s buzzing . . .
I pause with my hand on the doorknob. God, what am I going to do about this thing?
I take a breath and wrench open the door, tugging on my gloves as I walk down the hall and into our large kitchen. Shayna abandons the waffle iron when she sees me and skips forward, her ponytail bouncing behind her.
She throws her arms around me like it’s been months, not hours since she’s seen me. “Morning, Taran,” she tells me brightly.
I pat her back, wishing I could hug her for real. But real hugs lead to my very real tears, and I can’t keep doing this to my family. “Hey, princess. Wow, everything smells great.”
It’s the truth, yet my comment sounds phony and forced, even to me.
Her arms fall away slowly. Although she keeps her grin, I sense the worry behind it, as well as her fear. “You look hot,” she tells me, punching my good arm affectionately.
No. I look acceptable. I used to spend over an hour styling my dark wavy hair and applying my makeup. Now, I do enough so I don’t resign myself to sweats, watching made for TV movies, and stuffing my face with potato chips.
“Thanks,” I manage with yet another forced grin. I make a show of taking in all the breakfast foods, including the freshly baked goods. “Yum. Do you need help setting the table or anything?”
“No. It’s all good, T.”
She says nothing more which is unusual for Shayna. Either she’s waiting for me to speak, or she’s debating what to say. I can’t take another pity party so I lift a pan filled with eggs and plate stacked with waffles and bring them to the table. “Where’s your puppy?” I ask. Or in other words, where’s her gigantic scary werewolf husband, Koda.
“Oh, he already ate and left. He’s doing more at the Den since Celia’s been needing more ah, time with Aric.”
Okay, now I really grin, and so does she. Time with Aric is a mild way to describe what Celia desires from her husband.
Our youngest sister Emme walks out of the laundry room blushing, which tells me she’s heard us discussing Celia. Shayna’s grin quickly turns into a laugh. Emme’s shyness has that effect on her.
Emme clears her throat, but not her obvious discomfort. Where Shayna has dark straight hair, Emme has soft blonde waves and fair skin that reddens the longer we take her in. “Emme,” I offer. “What’s the big deal? So what if Celia’s banging Aric like the lead drummer at a Fourth of July parade.”
Emme holds up her hand. “Taran, let’s keep their private life private.”
I reach for a glass of fresh squeezed juice. “I would if they weren’t so damn loud. I swear, I thought the walls were going to come down around midnight when they―”
“Taran . . .” Emme whimpers, shaking her hands like she can’t stand to hear another word.
Emme’s always been so sweet and angelic. Me? Not at all. “Hey, do you suppose Celia’s more flexible now, given how Aric knocked her up? As in ankles behind the head kind of flexible―”
Emme lifts a muffin with her force and sends it zipping my way. I catch it in my hand before it rams me in the mouth. “Eat,” she insists. “Just eat.”
In other words, for once in your life, shut your inappropriate trap.
Shayna takes a seat beside me, laughing her skinny ass off. Emme sits, too, in time for Celia to stagger down the back steps.
Good God. Celia’s long curly hair is tousled from lack of sleep and the insane amount of sex she’s had. And her eyes? They’re glazed with a hunger that warns me not to get too close. “Is there bacon? Please tell me there’s bacon,” she growls as if crazed.
Her entire face beams when Emme levitates a plateful of bacon and lowers it front of an empty seat. Like a woman possessed, Celia sits and rams about four pieces in her mouth at once. The rest of us watch her in stunned silence as she chomps them down and reaches for another few slices. She freezes when she realizes we’re all gaping at her. “Sorry. Would you like some?”
Her tigress eyes replace her human ones, making it clear she’s only trying to be polite. And that only an idiot would get
between her and her breakfast.
“No, nope, uh-uh,” the three of us answer at once.
This seems to settle her inner beast enough so Celia’s human eyes once more blink back at us. I pour her a glass of juice, while Emme and Shayna carefully place plates stacked with food closer to her reach. What can I say, we don’t want to be eaten.
“Are you all right?” Emme asks her quietly.
It’s only then that Celia slows her frantic munching. “I don’t know,” she admits, her husky voice trickling with concern. She lifts her T-shirt and shows us her tiny belly. “The baby’s not growing.”
Yeah. We noticed that, too. Her pregnancy had been unexpected given she was incapable of bearing children. But within two weeks of finding out she and Aric had conceived, her baby bump had appeared and was visible through her wedding gown.
That was two months ago. And now, well, let’s say despite how this baby has been prophesized to rid the world of evil, we’re all pretty much freaking out that he or she isn’t growing.
“But your body’s changing,” I insist. I don’t exactly ooze optimism. In fact, I’m mostly the sky is falling and the earth is swallowing us whole kind of gal. But Celia doesn’t need to hear what’s wrong. My girl needs hope so that’s what I give her. I point to her chest. “If your hooters don’t scream you’re knocked up, I don’t know what does.”
She glances at her girls and then back at me, the tension in her shoulders lifting slightly. Yeah. Hope is exactly what she needs.
“They are a lot bigger,” she agrees quietly. She gathers her thoughts, appearing to want to say more despite her obvious hesitation. “My body’s changing in a lot of ways. Maybe not outwardly, but I can feel the difference inside of me.”
“Like in your magic, dude?” Shayna asks.
Celia nods. “The magic that helped me get pregnant seems to compliment mine. But I have to say, my hormones are out of control.” Her cheeks flush and she lowers her voice. “Poor Aric. I can’t stop having sex with him. It’s like every time I see him, I pounce.”