Feisty Heroines Romance Collection of Shorts

by D. F. Jones

  He opened his mouth to argue, but she was right. If he kept hovering over her, he’d drive them both crazy. While the grief of nearly losing her lingered, buried just beneath the surface of his heart, he couldn’t continue to shadow her every move. Serafina knew it. Of course she did. She’d been the first to break through his armor and see into his heart.

  His miracle indeed.

  “I’m hovering, huh?” he said, lifting her legs and plopping on the sofa beside her. He took one of her swollen feet between his hands and began massaging.

  “Oh, that feels amazing.” She arched her back, giving him a lovely view of her full breasts and luscious curves. Then she leveled her gaze on him. “But yes, you are hovering. You need to get back to work.”

  “What work? We’re at peace with the other elemental guardians, and it’s the middle of winter. Not much to do until spring.” He released her right foot and grabbed her left, giving it the same loving attention. Gods, she was so beautiful like this. Wait, no, she was always beautiful, but with the glow of new life growing within her, life they’d made together, she was glorious.

  “Bruce, stop trying to change the subject. Go out and play matchmaker. Now. You can seduce me later.”

  He groaned and leaned his head back on the sofa. Yes, matchmaking was one of his favorite pastimes, not to mention one of his duties as a Sylph. His kind ruled the winds, which in turn sustained them, as they distributed happiness and light. Joy, passion, and delight were like nectar to the Sylphs, and spreading it fed and strengthened them. Still…

  “Most elementals in my circle are happily mated, thanks to me.” He was rather proud of his most recent successes, including four mermaid sisters paired with worthy partners, and even his Dark Sylph sister with his best friend.

  “What about mortals and hybrids?” she asked. “They need all the help they can get. Their lives are short. Literally.”

  He snorted, pretending he wasn’t interested. “I’m not friggin’ Cupid. Besides, mortals are a no-no. We need to fly under the radar after our near misses.” Near misses like the inferno that nearly consumed his mate and half of western Tennessee.

  “No, but Cupid likes your work, if memory serves. And hybrids are fair game.”

  “He does, doesn’t he?” Bruce couldn’t fight the grin tugging at the corners of his lips. Maybe Sera was right. Hybrids—part mortal, part elemental guardian—lived in both worlds and helped protect the planet by working with humans. They kept their powers secret from humans, of course, being bound by the same rules as full-blooded elementals.

  And because their differences tended to set them apart, there were so many lost and lonely hybrids out there looking for love in all the wrong places or giving up entirely.

  Sera smiled, a smug, knowing smile. Oh, she’d played him like a fiddle.

  “You have someone in mind, don’t you?”

  “As a matter of fact,” she said, struggling to sit up. “I do.”

  Bruce helped her to her feet and stifled a laugh as she waddled over to one of his many shelves. No, the shelves were theirs, not his. Gods, he was so glad to have Sera, to share his world and all of himself with such an incredible creature.

  She walked back with a file in her hands. “Are you up for a real challenge?”

  He put his hand to his chest in mock indignation. Of course he was up for a challenge. He lived for challenges. The very thought made him giddy with anticipation. He reached for the file. “Gimme, gimme, gimme!”

  Sera laughed. “Settle down. This one is…special. I worked with her when I was hiding in the mortal world. We bonded because she was hiding, too, a hybrid Dryad with just enough elemental power and knowledge to be bound by secrecy. Birds of a feather, you could say. You’ll take good care of her, right? Make sure you find someone who’ll accept her as she is and cherish her?”

  He accepted the file and flipped through it, inhaling deeply to taste his mate’s emotions. Sera was anxious. She really wanted her friend to find love and happiness, but she had her doubts. Not doubts about him—she had doubts about whether the right person was out there for…he looked down at the file and read Louise. Her name was Louise. Thirty-eight years old, shy and reclusive, but very active online. Hmm.

  “I’m going to need the hackers on this one.”

  Sera’s gaze grew wary and her emotional essence spiked with uncertainty. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Boice and Roice are a bit too—”

  “Demonic?” Bruce teased, earning a reluctant smile from his mate. Twin brothers and tech geniuses, the little jerks claimed to be demons of technology. They might be, or maybe they were some other flavor of immortal entity. Either way, they were damned useful. And funny.

  “Trust me, little sparrow. The twins will do some reconnaissance and a bit of instant messaging if I need them to. It’ll be just the catalyst to light a fire under your friend’s—”

  “Watch it, Bruce.”

  “Er, I mean, light a fire in your friend’s heart.” He kissed her soundly and pulled out his mobile phone to contact the twins. He should rope in his sister Maurelle, too. The Dark Sylph, unlike the majority of his kind, fed on misery, which had caused a rift between him and Maury they’d only recently bridged. Asking Maury for help would be a good way to further heal the rift. If he pulled this off, he’d feast on happiness for decades from Louise and the lucky man he’d help her find.

  Twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one…

  Thirty-two steps to the elevator, then sixty-eight seconds before the elevator came down from the twenty-fifth floor, on average, to reach her on the tenth floor. If it took less than sixty-eight seconds, she’d tap her right foot to make up the difference. Delays were worse, of course. Louise never knew how long she’d have to count until the elevator door opened. If it opened after sixty-eight seconds, she’d have to start all over. She didn’t want to start over. It had been a long, grueling day, and she just wanted to leave the office, head home, and unwind.

  Seven, eight, nine—

  “Hey! Can you hold the elevator?” A deep and masculine voice echoed down the hall with the telltale sign of running terribly late.

  Ten, eleven... “Sure.” Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen… Please don’t let this guy be a chatterbox who’ll make me lose count.

  A tall figure entered her peripheral vision. Twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two… Thankfully, he didn’t speak after skidding to a halt beside her, and his labored breathing remained in synch with the metronome’s drone in her mind.

  Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty, almost there…

  “Thanks,” he said once he’d caught his breath, “I appreciate it.”

  Sixty-seven, sixty-eight. And, cue the clammy hands and thumping heart. She released a shaky breath with the elevator’s arrival. Risking a glance to her right, she caught a flash of lavender shirt peeking out from a suit jacket of fine grey silk. Nice tie, too. She could spend the ride down to the lobby counting the elegant fleurs-de-lis crisscrossing its slender lines.

  No. She’d caved and counted steps to the elevator and beats until it arrived, something she hadn’t done in months. She wasn’t going to make it worse by counting this poor stranger’s tie pattern. Deep breath in, and hold, now breathe out. Breathe and breathe, just center your mind, calm your body, and hold out until you get home.

  The elevator doors opened as she stood in front of them, frozen. She recognized the man with the nice suit and tie. She’d been crushing on him since he moved to her floor a few weeks ago. He stepped into the elevator, held the door, and waited for her to enter.

  She focused on breathing and on the mantra in her head. Her therapist had given her a script for situations like this, and she’d given it her own personal spin. “I don't feel like I need to count things. This is a compulsive urge to succumb to the compulsion of counting.” She muttered the words under her breath, eyes closed tight against the tremble, which threatened to morph into a serious case of the shakes. “It’s not me, it’s my—r />
  “Are you going down?” The man’s brow was furrowed. He was still holding the door, waiting for her.

  It’s my OCD. And…three, two, one, shake rattle and roll.

  She caught a glimpse of his face on her way to the floor. Shock and worry were painted across his features. Pity and revulsion, or worse, fear, would follow if she didn’t get it together soon. And if she kept her trap shut, she might get a hug or pat on the shoulder. Human contact. Would be nice.

  Hey, it’s better than telling him that I have to keep counting so the building won’t implode. Wouldn’t want to freak the guy out or anything.

  “Whoa, are you okay?” He’d stepped out of the elevator and crouched next to her. Oh, he had such a great voice, too. Maybe she’d get a close up look at the face that went with it before passing out like a complete idiot.

  Crap, he’s breaking out the cell phone.

  “I’m f-fine,” she lied. “I j-just skipped lunch, and I’m having a b-b-blood sugar crash.”

  He scooted closer and put his hand on her arm. God, he smelled so good--wintergreen with an enticing musky undertone. She couldn’t quite bring herself to meet his gaze, but his voice soothed her and she stopped shaking. And counting.

  “Are you a diabetic? Do you need some insulin or something? Oh, wait, let me run and get you some OJ from the vending machine!”

  He dashed off before she could stammer about not being diabetic. Just as well. Let him think she was physically sick instead of mentally ill. People tended to understand and sympathize with a physical disease more, and without asking embarrassing questions. Better yet, she should just pick her sorry ass up off the ground and take the stairs.

  I thought I was over this.

  No, she’d deluded herself with wishful thinking. She’d never be over it, but she managed it very well most of the time. Except on days like today, filled with stress and anxiety—that was when OCD reared its ugly head. Ugh, this was not how she’d envisioned her first conversation with her office crush. She grabbed her bag and stood on shaky legs so she could hobble to the stairwell door. Facing the ten-floor descent, she took a deep breath and gave herself over to the darkness.

  One, two, three…

  Louise sprawled out on her couch, mentally and physically exhausted from a long day at work that ended with a really bad episode. She’d reached out on the online forums, hoping for empathy and support. Instead, the responses focused on something else entirely.

  One hour and twenty-two minutes with no replies to the post about her relapse, but put something up about a cute guy and the message board of her online OCD support group lit up like the Fourth of July.

  She shook her head in mock disbelief, but acknowledged the healing power of laughter. Back in the cocoon of her tiny, cluttered apartment, fed, watered, and relieved by the prospect of the weekend, she could commiserate online with the anonymous people who shared her condition. The power of social media and a high-speed Internet connection was a godsend.

  Scrolling down the laptop screen, she reread her posts but resisted the urge to count words and letters. Hey, it was a small victory, but at least it was something.

  CountDracula82 wrote:

  Had a presentation today (trigger) and started counting again. Saw my building burning to the ground and my coworkers screaming while they turned into bacon. I caved and counted. I hate this. I held it together until the end of the day, but I swear if I get the promotion (probably will, since demon boss actually smiled) I’ll just go off the deep end. NOT CHANGING MEDS AGAIN!

  * * *

  0 Comments

  * * *

  CountDracula82 wrote:

  Okay, sorry for the shouting. I’m just kicking myself because I face planted in front of this guy who had a nice tie and smelled good, and I’m totally embarrassed.

  27 Comments

  * * *

  Sifting through the usual sympathy wishes, similar stories, and a few more date offers that left her with an odd mixture of amusement and regret, she paused at one of the latter comments. Someone with the screen name B&RTechFUBAR had posted it, a newbie to the chat group and clearly someone in need of initiation and sensitivity training.

  Not to mention a new screen name. Jeez.

  Okay, quit judging and start typing. As admin for this forum, she was obliged to call out inappropriate posts and responses. She sorted through her files to find the boilerplate explanation of the forum rules, tweaking it to address issues specific to this obnoxious new user.

  * * *

  PM to B&RTechFUBAR from CountDracula82:

  * * *

  Re: Comment [‘You should’ve grabbed the guy and banged the hell out of him. It would have made his day, and it would probably help you if you got laid, too.’]

  * * *

  Dear B&R,

  Welcome to our forum. I am going to give you the benefit of the doubt by contacting you directly rather than reporting you to the moderators.

  I'm not trying to alienate you or make you feel unwelcome, but sometimes a troll or two slips through the screening process and ends up hurting someone.

  In case you are new to your diagnosis and OCD spectrum disorders in general, you should know that some people on the spectrum suffer from sexual compulsions or use unhealthy sexual activity as a form of self-medication. As such, your comment could be very hurtful at best, or serve as a trigger at worst.

  This forum is meant to be a community of mutual support, compassion, and understanding, and a place where people with OCD can feel safe discussing their personal struggles.

  If, on the other hand, you are a troll (or a voyeur, or simply curious), then here are a few things you should know. Imagine seeing, in vivid detail, your worst fear playing in your mind at the worst possible times for no good reason, over and over again. Maybe the only way you can stop it is to hoard food, or books, or shop until you’ve run yourself into bankruptcy. Or maybe you have to wash your hands fifty times before eating, or check your locks and set them in a precise pattern, or maybe you need to count (like I do).

  * * *

  She should have stopped typing, but some strange impulse had her fingers flying across the keyboard, spilling her guts to the stranger on the other end.

  * * *

  You know it’s crazy, you hate yourself for it, and you know the world won’t end if you don’t do it, but you have to because it’s the only thing that gives you even a tiny bit of relief. The relief doesn’t last, the meds don’t always work or work all the time, and you know it’s coming when you get stressed, but you can’t stop it. Your family hates you (or pities you, which is worse), your demon boss doesn’t understand or care, and you can’t even THINK about having a long-term relationship because who wants to deal with your issues? So you can hook up with strangers and hate yourself in the morning, or you can turn your needs into other compulsions (and hate yourself for it), or just hope that someday you’ll get your shit together because right now you’re so lonely, a pat on the shoulder by some guy in a nice tie makes your whole year brighter.

  * * *

  She regretted hitting send as soon as her PM hit the screen, but it was too late to delete it. Pity. You’d think an OCD support site would have some sort of take-it-back button, but she’d put it out there to a stranger, including some deeply personal stuff, so now she was stuck with it.

  She stood up, dislodging the cat from her lap and earning a hiss. At least he didn’t bite or swat at her. Instead of worrying about an angry feline and online stranger, she set the laptop on the coffee table and walked into the kitchen to grab a beer. She was in for the night and not driving anywhere, and she had a nice stash of her favorite brand. She tossed a bag of popcorn into the microwave, hoping the ancient, infernal contraption she’d inherited after college wouldn’t explode like it almost had last week.

  No use starting down the road to self-pity and counting all the ways her lot in life sucked. Best to focus on the positive. Life wasn’t so bad, really. It wasn’t like she
had terminal cancer, or was homeless, or unemployed. She had a job, a decent place to live, and sole possession of the remote control. True, her only companions consisted of the online crowd, a few friends from the office, and her cat, Orestes. The semi-feral bundle of surly had been half-starved, flea-ridden, and seemingly tormented by tiny invisible pixies for weeks after she’d found him in the alley behind her apartment building, hence the moniker.

  It was ridiculous, since pixies were neither tiny nor invisible, but something had clearly spooked kitty.

  Two years later, he was a plump, flea-free bundle of surly, but at least he’d stopped swatting at things unseen. He spent most evenings perched on her lap, allowing her to give him the occasional ear scratch before turning into bitey psycho kitty. Oh well, he didn’t judge, and if she could bring her fixer-upper furball this far, she could keep getting better, too.

  Orestes hissed at her laptop as the beep let her know she’d received an email. Well, that was fast. Taking a sip of liquid courage, she shooed the fluffy tomcat, picked up the computer, and flopped down on the couch so she could peruse the screen.

  Yup, it was a reply from her new buddy, B&R.

  * * *

  PM to CountDracula82 from B&RTechFUBAR:

  Re: Re: Comment [‘You should’ve grabbed the guy and banged the hell out of him. It would have made his day, and it would probably help you if you got laid, too.’]

  * * *

  Aw, come on, Louise. Learn to take a joke! While you’re at it, learn to live a little.