SCREWED by Kendall Ryan Chapter Reveal

We are very excited for this brand new standalone from Kendall Ryan.
Releasing on September 15 we get a peek at a sexy romantic comedy from the NYT Bestselling author

I have one rule: Don’t shit where you eat.

Several of the women in the condo complex I own would love some one-on-one playtime, and why wouldn’t they? I’m young, fit, attractive, and loaded. Not to mention I’m packing a sizable bulge below the belt. It’s a combination that drops panties on a regular basis.

Yay, me, right?

But my cock, troublemaker that he is, has been confined to my trousers by my business partner. A concession I agreed to, and one that’s never been hard to enforce until Emery moves in across the hall. She’s smart, young, determined, and sexy as hell. I want a taste. I won’t stop until I’m buried deep inside the succulent new-in-town brunette.

After being warned about my past, she does her best to steer clear, but I’m about to show her that underneath it all, I’m a guy with a heart of gold and a cock of steel.

My name is Hayden Oliver, and this is my story.

SCREWED is standalone romantic comedy by New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling author Kendall Ryan.

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Chapter One


Hayden

Goddamn. This is going to be harder than I thought.

My eyes swing over to admire the most perfect pear-shaped ass I’ve ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on while my business partner Hudson continues lecturing me. I think it’s something important, but there’s nothing more urgent than my body’s reaction to this shapely brunette. Jesus. Those tits are definitely real.

“I mean it. Your cock is cut off this time,” Hudson says roughly, his tone biting.

Tearing my gaze away from the succulent new brunette moving into unit 4B, I face him. “Not literally cut off. I’m sort of attached to him. Yourealize that, right?”

“Well it’s on lock down then. No more of this bullshit. I had three calls this week alone from hysterical women – our tenants – who you, how do I put this delicately? You fucked and then left before their pussies were even dry.”

I smirk at him, but I can’t deny the accusation. We’re like the real life Melrose Place. Sexy young twenty-somethings all living in close proximity. There’s bound to be a little drama now and again. Together, Hudson and I own thirty buildings in the greater Los Angeles area. And some of our buildings have very fuckable tenants. Up until this point, I’d considered that a nice bonus, and a perk of the job. Hudson has apparently viewed it differently.

“Who’s that?” I ask, tipping my head toward the bombshell who’s responsible for all the blood rushing to my groin. Fuck. I should have a word with her about that, that’s not cool.

Hudson’s eyes swing to the left to see what, or rather, who has captured my attention. And who’s given me this semi-chub, which I hope he hasn’t noticed. We’re close, but we’re not that close.

“No, no, no. Don’t get any ideas. You’re not tagging that.”

She’s not close enough to overhear us, but I shoot him a scowl anyway. “Show some class, man. Tagging is such a juvenile word. I’d take my time, get her hot and ready first, until she was begging for me to fill her tight, little cunt.”

“I’m fucking serious. You’re not to even think about her tight cunt.”

“So you acknowledge she’s got a tight cunt?” I smile, proud of myself.

He wipes sweat from his brow, looking worried. “Hayden, I’m serious this time.” His voice has taken on a somber tone, and for once, I try to be serious and focus.

Watching the way the vein throbs in his neck, my smile fades. We’re standing outside of one of our nicest buildings just outside of downtown, and the mid-afternoon sun is beating down on us. Suddenly I want to get away from him, and away from this entire conversation and into the cool air conditioning inside. Shit has gotten a little too real for me.

“You know me,” I grin at him, trying to lighten the mood. “I just wanted to have some casual fun.” And if that meant sleeping my way through the LA singles scene, so be it. I’m not looking for something deeper. I have a luxury condo in the heart of the Hollywood Hills, drive a new model BMW and possess a nine-inch cock. Translation: Life is good. Or it was, until Hudson decided to get a bug up his ass and lay down the law today.

“Did you hear a word I just said? One of your latest conquests threatened to report our company to the Better Business Bureau for unethical business practices. This isn’t just about you. This affects me too. And I’ll be damned if I watch everything we’ve built go down in flames because you can’t keep your dick in your pants.”

“Point taken.” Hudson is pretty much the best friend, and best business partner you could ask for. He’s smart as hell, dedicated, works like a dog day and night. And not to mention when we began our real estate investment company five years ago, he single-handedly fronted all the start-up capital from his own savings and trust fund. It took me years to pay him back as the profits rolled in, and he never once made me feel lesser, or like I was in debt to him. Not to mention, he’s funny, well-off, and good looking. He’s an excellent wing-man. Plus he knows the best taco joints.

Unable to help myself, my eyes drift over to her again. 4B fills out a pair of yoga pants in ways that I doubt are even legal in most countries. I needed to know what was underneath those curve-hugging black athletic pants. Simple cotton panties, or a naughty g-string? Either way, I wanted to bury my fingers inside the waistband of those pants, peel them down her hips and find out. Perhaps it was because Hudson just made her forbidden fruit, but I wanted a taste. My damn mouth was practically watering.

She looked smart, and put together, despite her casual attire, including a tank top and tennis shoes. With a clipboard in one hand, and her trusty number two pencil in the other, she ticked items off of her list, and instructed the movers who were unloading and carrying boxes up to her new place – which just so happened to be directly underneath mine.

“You’re not going to last three minutes let alone three days.” Hudson grimaces, glancing over again at our newest resident.

“What do you know about her?”

He rolls his eyes, but humors me. “Emery Elaine Winters. She’s an attorney. Excellent references. Even better credit score, and she signed a one year lease. And she’s to remain in pristine condition, or so help me God …”

When I glance up at her again, I see Roxy, another of our residents has joined Emery on the sidewalk, and they appear to be making small talk. Shaking hands, exchanging words, and smiling at each other. There’s something I strongly dislike about these two women talking. Roxy is an exotic dancer, and she I have a bit of a rocky past. Which is a huge fucking understatement, but not something I care to dwell on now. Hudson mentions something about fourth quarter taxes, and I tune him out, sure I just heard my name on Roxy’s over-glossed lips.

“Excuse me, I’ve got business to attend to.” I step around him, heading straight toward my new prize. Roxy spots me, and takes off for the parking area.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Hudson calls after me.

“Just being neighborly. Someone’s got to properly welcome Miss
Winters.”

“Dammit, Hayden,” I hear him shout.

“I’ve got this, buddy,” I shout back over my shoulder.

I can control myself around her. I have to, according to Hudson. I don’t like being told what to do, especially where my cock was concerned, and hell, it’ll probably only make me want her more, but as I close the distance between Emery and me, I make a plan.

Friends.

I would become friends with theso-hot-I-wanted-to-bend-her-over-and-fuck-her-in-broad-daylight new girl.

This was either the best plan I’d ever had, or would end with me
sporting a black eye, courtesy of my best friend.

It’s go time.

Kendall Ryan is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of contemporary romance novels, including Hard to Love, Unravel Me, Resisting Her and When I Break.

She's a sassy, yet polite Midwestern girl with a deep love of books, and a slight addiction to lipgloss. She lives in Minneapolis with her adorable husband and two baby sons, and enjoys hiking, being active, and reading.


Visit her at: www.kendallryanbooks.com for the latest book news, and fun extras

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Chapter Reveal for BEFORE & AFTER by Nazarea Andrews

Today we are having a chapter reveal for BEFORE & AFTER by author Nazarea Andrews. This book will be released next Thursday, July 30th and it is a New Adult contemporary romance.

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BEFORE & AFTER BOOK BLURB:

Rike and Peyton fell in love in college.  

A boy from the wrong side of the tracks, covered in ink and crooning in a bar is the last person a straight laced girl with a art major should fall for, but his rough edges made her jagged, alive, shaving away the coddled southern princess and revealing a soul wild and brilliant.  

They fell in love, despite her family and his past and all the reasons why it wouldn't work--and with their best friends, they made a life. Everyone was supposed to live happily ever after. 

They, more than anyone, knows that life doesn't go according to plan.
Rike and Peyton fell in love in college. A boy with a guitar, and a poet's heart, and a girl with freckles dusted over her nose, a perfect fucking fairy tale.  

But what happens when the fairy tale doesn't fall apart--but is forgotten?

Chapter One:

Prologue: Now

It's raining buckets and I don't want to go out in that. I stared at it from under the awning of the club and felt Lindsay sway into me. For a second, we both wobbled and another one of the girls banged against my side and I shrieked, sure we were going down.

Lindsay rights me, pulls me close. I lean my head on her shoulder and puff out a petulant, "Bitch."

Her grip tightens just a touch and she laughs.

I haven't been this drunk since senior year of college, when we did Christmas at her parent's beach house in Key West. I wouldn't be this drunk now except she begged.

Hung over and washed out wouldn't do for the wedding, and even after that insane night on the beach with jello shots and beer funnels and tequila body shots, I had woken up without a hang over.

And that's what you do, when your best friend begs the night before her wedding--you do her shots while the rest of the bridal party screams at the strippers and you slip her watered down beer that smells like piss.

You take the holy fuck never again drunk, because tomorrow, no one will be looking at me while she prances down the aisle in white.

Well.

One person will. And he'd think this shit was hilarious. I giggle against Linds' shoulder and she bumps me gently. "You good?" She murmurs as we wait for the cab.

I smirk up at her, the world spinning unsteadily. "I'm fucking wasted."
She laughs softly and kisses my forehead.

"Lindsay, get in," one of the other girls calls and she peers at the cab. It won't hold all of us, and I can feel a new tension settle over my best friend.

Lindsay doesn't have a lot of close friends. Partly because we came here, to this city neither of us knows, because of the boys. So we both started over.

And because when we have each other, and the boys, well. We don't need much else. But she's more social than I am. And she works at a small ad agency, where she's gotten close to the other girls.

So when she needed bridesmaids, of course she asked them.

I smirk as Lindsay shakes her head. "Y’all go. Peyton and I will grab the next."

There's a moment of rain splattered quiet and then the girl--I forget but I think she's one of the Jennifers--shrugs and slides into the little cab, slamming the door behind her.

"What a bitch," I mutter.

She laughs, that real noise that I know like breathing. Not the fake shit she's been shoveling at the other girls all night.

"Stop it," she orders and I blink up at her. "You’re thinking too much. Your drunk, Pey. Let go and enjoy it."

I lean into her, and murmur, "Wanna help?"

She laughs again, shoving my shoulder, and I giggle. "You are such a slut when you drink." She mutters.

I nod agreeably, and a cab pulls up. It's dingy and the driver is frowning at his phone even as it he pulls to a stop. He gives us a distracted look as we spill in and the world sways, dizzy for a long moment. Lindsay tugs me against her as I whimper and pushes my hair back, studying me. "The Embassy Suites," she says and he nods, jerking into motion.

Linds mutters under her breath and reaches for her seatbelt. "Sit up, honey. Belt. The rain is awful."

"Freaking mother hen," I grumble and she shrugs, implacable. I huff and shift to sit up and my phone goes off, the ringtone that only Rike has. I squeal and Lindsay reaches for me as I scramble for my purse, abandoned on the dark, dirty floorboard. I close my hand over it and hear her scream, my name a twisted noise that is almost unrecognizable.

It's the last thing I can't remember.

AUTHOR LINKS:

• Website - http://www.nazareaandrews.com/
• Blog - http://www.nazarea-andrews.blogspot.com/
• Twitter - https://twitter.com/NazareaAndrews
• Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/pages/Nazarea-Andrews/43623123516
• Street Team - https://www.facebook.com/groups/427502530700422/

About Real Vampires Don’t Sparkle

Matheus Taylor didn’t ask to be murdered. Quin didn’t care. A seventeen-hundred old Roman, Quintus Livius Saturnius had a different view of morality than most people. Killing Matheus and hijacking his undead existence seemed perfectly acceptable to him.
Now, Matheus spends his nights running for his life, questioning his sexual orientation, and defying a mysterious new threat to the vampires within his city. Not that he set out to do any defying; he just wanted to be left alone. Unfortunately, that was never going to happen.
Real Vampires Don’t Sparkle is a YA paranormal / urban fantasy dark comedy by Amy Fecteau, serialized and published right here at Curiosity Quills, every Sunday.

Installments:

• 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16
• 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29
• 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42
• 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51 | 52 | 53 | 54 | 55
• 56 | 57 | 58 | 59 | 60 | 61 | 62 | 63 | 64 | 65 | 66

Alistair breezed into his office, humming under his breath. He stopped short as Matheus slapped his paperwork down onto the desk.
“Oh, so you decided to return,” said Matheus, folding his hands on Alistair’s desk. He’d commandeered Alistair’s office, spending most of the past three hours reviewing Alistair’s records in an attempt to distract himself. “I mean, it’s not like there’s a power-mad psycho bitch out there hunting us down like wounded gazelles. Please, feel free to disappear for hours without calling anyone. It’s no skin off my nose.”
“Aw, you were worried.” Alistair leaned over the desk, kissing Matheus’ cheek. “That’s very sweet.”
Matheus jerked to his feet, slamming his hands onto the desk, the metal reverberating through the tiny room.
“I’m serious, Alistair. You’re the one telling me not to run off with Quin, and then you turn around and do that exact thing!”
Alistair paused, his coat halfway off his shoulders, his lips parted. He blinked at Matheus.
“You were worried,” he said in a softer tone.
“Yes!”
“Well,” said Alistair. “Now you know how it feels.” He walked around the desk, bumping his hip against Matheus’, nudging him away. “Give me my chair back.”
Sullenly, Matheus stomped around the desk. The remains of the destroyed chair had been removed, replaced with a battered armchair. A spring poked out of the cushion. Gingerly, Matheus lowered himself into the chair. He slid downward, toward the back right corner, his knees rising to his chest.
“What is wrong with this chair?” he asked, trying to wiggle free without snagging a testicle on the loose spring.
Alistair glanced up, letting out a snort of laughter.
“It’s broken,” he said.
“Gosh, how did you figure that out?” Matheus asked. “Are you a Fulbright scholar?”
“Two things, darling. One, the Fulbright program didn’t exist when I went to college. Two, you couldn’t figure out that the broken chair you’re sitting in is broken? That does not inspire confidence.”
“I meant what is specifically wrong with it.”
“I’m not a chair specialist, Matheus. It’s broken. Do you really need more information that that?” Alistair rattled the top drawer. The metal had rusted, and the drawer tended to stick.
“You don’t need to be snippy,” said Matheus.
“You started it,” said Alistair. “Where is my clipboard?”
“Bottom drawer, under the cheap Harlequin you think I don’t know about.”
Alistair glared at the bottom drawer, serving an official declaration of war. He tugged on the handle, then yanked with both hands, engaging the drawer in full-fledged battle.
“I thought you didn’t like Freddie,” said Matheus, the spring grazing his leg as he escaped from the chair’s grasp. He perched on the corner of the desk, papers crumpling beneath him. Picking up a pen, Matheus unscrewed the cap, dumping the contents onto the desk.
“I don’t,” said Alistair. With a grunt, he ripped the drawer open, his chair rolling backward in accordance with the laws of motion.
Matheus lined up the various bits of pen in a neat row. He pushed the ink cartridge with the tip of his index finger, rolling it back and forth.
“Three hours is a long time to spend with someone you don’t like,” he said.
Alistair dropped his clipboard on the desk, then reached for his pen. He shot Matheus a dirty look. The top drawer shrieked open. Alistair slapped a new pen onto the clipboard, smacking Matheus’ hand away.
“Leave my pens alone,” said Alistair. “Are you jealous?”
“Of your pens?” Matheus asked. “Yes, madly.”
“You know that isn’t what I meant.” Alistair flipped through the papers on his clipboard. He leaned forward, squinting at the notes wrinkled beneath Matheus’ butt. He prodded Matheus’ back, tugging on the papers with his other hand.
“I don’t know what you meant,” said Matheus, refusing to move. “Maybe you should be more clear next time.”
Alistair sighed. “Are you going to be a little bitch for the rest of the night? What happened to you throwing me at Freddie?”
“I stopped that.”
“Of course you did. That’s why he’s been sleeping with us.”
“Uh,” said Matheus.
Alistair used the opportunity to wiggle free the paperwork. He sat back, smoothing his palms over the crumbled sheets.
“I’m not an idiot, Matheus,” he said.
“I didn’t think it was a big deal.” Matheus raised his thumb to his mouth, nibbling along the nail.
“Oh, lord.” Alistair waved a hand. “Do me a favor. When you lie to my face, at least make an effort to be not quite so blindingly obvious. It’s disrespectful.”
“I wasn’t lying,” Matheus said, moving onto his index finger.
“Then you’re a moron,” said Alistair. “Which is it?”
“I’m not―” Matheus stood up, shoving his hands into his pockets. He paced the tiny room, banging into the armchair, and digging his hip into the corner of Alistair’s desk. “Shit.” He hopped, rubbing his leg. “We do have more important things to worry about.”
“Daytime is our biggest weakness, Matheus.” Alistair picked up the disassembled pen. He slotted the cartridge into the shell, and twisted the two halves together. “We’re completely helpless.”
“I know that,” said Matheus. He dropped into the armchair, then leapt up with a yelp. The exposed spring gleamed with malicious glee. Matheus scowled, first at the Spring of Castration, then at Alistair, the Unsympathetic Sniggerer.
Alistair’s laughter gave way to a bittersweet smile. He shifted, propping up his chin in the palm of his hand. He looked at Matheus, the flickering golden light of the lantern softening his features.
“I just wish you would stop sending mixed signals,” he said.
“I’m not sending mixed signals, Alistair,” Matheus said. “I was worried about you.” He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, rocking a little on his heels. “Maybe a tiny bit jealous.”
“Ha!” Alistair leapt up, waving his finger at Matheus.
“Mostly worried,” Matheus said loudly. “Like ninety-nine-point-nine percent worried.”
“Uh huh,” said Alistair.
“I’m not talking about this anymore,” said Matheus. “I contacted Faust. Gwen’s not at Apollonia’s. Neither are Eamon or Salvatore. I don’t know if that means she’s keeping them somewhere else, or if she doesn’t have them at all. Faust hasn’t heard anything, nothing about any new pets, or if they’re hiding somewhere.”
Alistair settled down into his chair. “They might already be dead.”
“I don’t think so,” said Matheus. “If Apollonia intended to kill them, she would have done it immediately. Eamon and Salvatore were alive when Gwen ran out. Besides, you really want to say they’re dead and leave it at that?”
“I suppose not.” Alistair frowned down at his clipboard. “Where do you think they are, then?”
“I think we should assume my father has them,” Matheus said. “We need to check his warehouse.”
“The warehouse where Quin was being held?” Alistair asked. “The place with the guards and the magic zombie-making machine?”
“It’s more of a hands-on procedure,” said Matheus. “I don’t think my father has mechanized the process quite yet.”
“That was absolutely not my point,” said Alistair. “It’s dangerous, and idiotic, and reckless, and I don’t know why I’m still talking since you’re going to go anyway, aren’t you?” He sighed, his shoulders slumping. “You realize you can order someone else to go.”
“I can’t do that,” said Matheus.
“No,” said Alistair. “Because you’re a big stupid hero. It’s both endearing and frustrating.”
“Um,” said Matheus. “I don’t think that―”
“I know, I know. You don’t do it on purpose,” said Alistair. “I wish you did. Then I could hate you in peace.”
“Okay.” Matheus held up his hands, backing toward the door. “I’m going now.”
“Not without me.”Alistair stood up, his chair flying into the wall. “Don’t argue with me. You can’t go alone.”
“I won’t go alone,” said Matheus. “But you’re staying here.”
Alistair’s lips twisted. “Why? I know how to handle myself. I was in a goddamned war, Matheus.”
“That isn’t what I’m saying.” Matheus scrubbed his hands through his hair. “My father is not a nice man, yeah? I don’t want you anywhere near him.”
“Then why are you going?” asked Alistair.
“Someone has to.”
“Not you.”
“Yes me,” said Matheus.
Alistair crossed his arms. “Then I’m going too.”
“No, you’re not!” Matheus shouted. “Jesus Christ, Alistair, you saw what happened to Quin. If that happened to you, I’d…”His gaze slid from Alistair’s face to the broken armchair. He dug the toe of his sneaker into the dirt floor. “I just don’t want that to happen.”
“Matheus, you can’t guarantee that nothing horrible ever happens to me,” said Alistair.
“I know that,” said Matheus, still digging his way to China. “But, I mean, you’re…”He gave a half-shrug. “…important. To me. And, you know, I’m not exactly, um, good at making friends, so I’d prefer if you didn’t turn into a weird zombie, then forgot all about me, because I really don’t think I could handle that. So, will you please stay here, so I don’t have to worry about you for at least one night? Please, Alistair.”
“All right,” said Alistair slowly. “But just so you know, that just now? That is a mixed signal.”
“Fine,” said Matheus. “I’d stick being a total asshole. Would that make you feel better?”
“Yes.” Alistair leaned against his desk, picking up his clipboard. He clasped the clipboard to his chest, crisscrossed his arms. “Take Heaven and Milo with you. At least they won’t let you do anything stupid.”
“Plus, I think Milo has grenades,” Matheus said.
“That too,” said Alistair.

“Why don’t you buy a car?” Milo asked as he climbed into the passenger seat. He laid his bag down at his feet. Matheus hadn’t asked what Milo had inside, but judging by the way Milo handled it, he had something a bit more potent then Nerf balls.
Matheus stuck a screwdriver into the ignition. He leaned down, yanking out a bundle of wires from under the steering wheel. The SUV shook as Heaven opened the rear door, releasing a cascade of empty fast food containers. She climbed in the back, tossing out the few fry boxes that escaped the purge.
“I could.” Matheus twisted a couple of the wires together. The engine turned over with a low rumble.
“It would save time,” said Milo, brushing snow out of his hair.
“But where would I park?” asked Matheus, shifting into reserve. He pulled out of the parking space, narrowly missing the two-hundred-thousand dollar Lexus in the next space. The Lexus had been Matheus’ first choice, but he thought a luxury car painted a shade of orange usually worn by deer hunters might be a tiny bit conspicuous. What Matheus found most baffling was that eye-scorching orange did not appear on the standard list of colors. The owner had to request a special paint job, and pay extra. Money and taste did not always have a one-to-one relationship.
Matheus turned out of the parking lot. He hoped that Colorblind-Lexus and SUV planned on staying a few more hours. The motel specialized in rooms for the adulterous. Given the expense of the cars, Matheus guessed that a pair of upper-middle-class suburbanites decided to go slumming without their respective spouses.
“In front,” Milo said.
“That wouldn’t be at all suspicious in front of an abandoned nineteenth-century mansion.” Matheus flipped on his blinker, merging into the lane for the tunnel. He ignored the beeps as he cut off an ancient Volkswagen, black smoke billowing out from its muffler.
“Eighteenth century,” said Heaven.
“Sorry,” said Matheus. “Eighteenth century.”
“Accuracy is important.”
“I think I saw that on a cross-stitch once.” Matheus sped up, passing a truck with two confederate flags fluttering off the tailgate. Bumper stickers, of the kind that’d make even the staunchest of conservatives wince, obscured the rear window. The driver honked as Matheus slipped in front of him, making all sorts of unkind hand gestures. For a fleeting second, Matheus considering slamming on his brakes, but he decided to hold the higher ground. Even if he really did want to ask if the driver realized he lived the part of the country that had been anti-Confederate, namely the North.
Milo watched the Confederate-truck fade into the distance with only the slightest downturn of his lips. The tunnel turned in a smooth curve, the right lane branching away to a street exit. The whir of tires mixed with the growl of engines, concrete walls bending the sounds into odd angles. Lights passed over the SUV, casting them alternatively in stripes of yellow and gray.
“You just like stealing cars,” Milo said.
“This I cannot deny,” said Matheus. The end of the tunnel appeared. The SUV bounced as Matheus shot up the sloping exit onto the freeway. He grinned, the engine revving as the SUV shot forward. He leapfrogged across two lanes into the fast lane. The highway stretched in front of him, the city rising up to greet them. “What do you think the top speed of this thing is?”
Milo clicked on his seatbelt.

Matheus drove past the warehouse at a crawl. The gate had been replaced, graffiti in neon green and pink tagged across the metal. Snow banks blocked the entrance to the unplowed driveway. He slowed, idling just past the warehouse.
“This isn’t right,” he said. “There should be guards.”
“It is very late,” said Heaven.
“It might be a trap,” said Milo.
“He’s not that subtle.” Matheus drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He didn’t see any tire tracks leading to the building.
“Your father?” asked Heaven.
Matheus had given her the highlights of his last encounter during the ride over. Although, much of the story had already leaked out. Matheus didn’t know how, exactly; he’d given only Alistair the full account. Milo had worked for Apollonia. He knew some parts, but Milo and gossip went together about as well as chalk and cheese. In small groups, information seemed to take on a life of its own, traveling outside any physical medium.
“You have a strange family,” said Milo.
“That wins understatement of the year.” Matheus shifted into reverse. He plowed through the embankment, stopping a foot from the gate. He waited, but no one came running out waving crossbows. He yanked out the screwdriver, shoving it into his jacket pocket. The engine died with a jolt.
“Everyone find a buddy,” said Matheus, opening his door. “No wandering away from the group, and don’t stick your fingers in the cages.”
Milo ignored him. He swung his bag over his shoulder. Something inside clanked, but nothing exploded, so Matheus figured Milo had the situation under control. Between the two of them, they managed to lift the metal gate enough to slip underneath, following Heaven. Matheus blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Their footsteps echoed as they walked down the concrete ramp. Milo dug into his bag, pulling out a heavy duty flashlight. The beam of light swung around the empty room.
Matheus’ footsteps crunched. He bent down, picking up a shard of red plastic. He ran his thumb along the ragged edge. The faint edge of old blood tainted the air. He closed his eyes, remembering the last time he’d been in this parking lot.
“Matheus?” Heaven touched his arm. “There is nothing here.”
“Yeah,” said Matheus, letting the bit of plastic slip from his fingers. “We should check upstairs.”
Milo stood by the elevator.
“Power’s off,” he said, tapping the button with the flashlight. “We’ll have to take the stairs.”
They climbed to the first floor. Cubicle walls had been knocked over, shredded paper and broken office equipment scattered everywhere. Matheus knelt beside an overturned file cabinet. He picked up a handful of paper strips, then let them sprinkle between his fingers.
“This is all worthless,” he said.
Milo prodded through the smashed remains of a computer.
“Harddrive’s gone,” he said. He turned a circuit board between his fingers.
Heaven moved through the debris. She paused in the middle of the room, looking up at the ceiling. Matheus stood up, following her gaze, but he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.
“Let’s try upstairs,” Matheus said. “This was just administration.”
“An evil overlord required administration?” asked Milo, tucking the circuit board into his bag.
“He’s not really an overlord,” said Matheus.
“Evil, though.”
“Oh yeah, that’s for damn sure.”
Heaven drifted past Matheus into the stairwell. “Boys?” she called. “Come here.”
“What is it?” Matheus asked.
Heaven pressed a finger to her lips, then pointed upward.
“I don’t―” Matheus stopped. His ears strained, catching the faintest sound, hanging on the border of inaudible.
“Footsteps,” said Heaven.
“Someone’s here,” said Milo.
“The cells are up there,” Matheus said. He started up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Milo and Heaven followed him. He heard Milo unzip his bag, and the clanking of metal.
“No grenades.” Matheus stopped outside the door to the second floor.
“It’s not a grenade,” said Milo.
“What is―Jesus, Milo, where the hell did you get that?” Matheus stared at the monstrosity in Milo’s hands.
“I have contacts,” Milo said.
“Is that even legal?”
Milo checked the ammunition, the flicked off the safety. Matheus didn’t know the make. His knowledge of guns stopped at hunting rifles. The massive hunk of lead Milo held definitely did not qualify as a rifle. The brushed gray barrel stretched eight inches, wide enough to hold a bullet to stop a walrus. Milo held the gun with two hands; Matheus suspected that if he tried to fire one-handed, he’d end up with a broken wrist.
“It’s legal,” said Milo.
“In the U.S.?” Matheus asked.
Milo gave him a few seconds of flat eye contact. “Open the door, Matheus.”
“You know how to use that, right? You’re not going to shoot me in the leg or anything?”
“Only if I want to,” said Milo.
“Oh, that’s very comforting,” said Matheus.
“Guns are the succubae,” said Heaven. “They are consumers of souls.” She eyed the weapon with a curled lip.
Matheus wanted to get this expedition over with, but he had to ask.
“How, exactly? A person killed with a knife is just as dead.”
“It is not the victim whose soul is in danger,” said Heaven.
Matheus looked at the gun, scratching the back of his neck. “I get worried when I understand what you mean.”
“It’s just a weapon,” said Milo. “Not an occult, soul-sucking totem.”
“Also a valid point,” said Matheus. “Let’s save the debate on gun control for later, though?”
“Death is an intimate moment,” said Heaven.
“I’m opposed to intimacy on general principle,” said Milo.
“Enough,” said Matheus, stepping between them. He pointed to the door. “We’re going in there, and you, Milo, are not going to shoot anybody because I want to ask questions and that’s hard to do when someone’s head has been turned into a fine red mist.”
“I’ll aim for the legs.”
Matheus shook his head. He pulled open the door, listening for more footsteps. Silence echoed through the hallway. Heaven trailed behind Matheus, her bare feet whispering over the tiled floor.
“What did they do in this place?” she asked.
Matheus glanced over his shoulder. Heaven had wrapped her arms over her chest, her shoulders trembling beneath her long shawl. Her hair swung forward, dark strands hiding her face.
“Held prisoners for experimentation,” said Matheus.
“This is a dark place,” said Heaven. “I do not wish to linger in this place.”
They reached the cells. The glass doors stood open, the prisoners long gone.
Matheus walked down the hall, a shiver travelling through his spine. He walked faster. The shiver crawled up to his skull, like spiders creeping through his hair. The sensation cut off with a jolt. Matheus stopped. He turned toward the open cell, the one Quin had occupied.
“Hello,” said Quin.
Matheus froze, trapped in a moment of déjà vu. Quin sat on the bench, relaxation in feline form, a bundle of muscles held in suspension, awaiting further information before striking. One corner of his mouth turned up in a mockery of a smile.
“What are you doing here?” Matheus asked. Milo and Heaven flanked him. Heaven peered at Quin, her head tilted to the side. Milo held his gun up, pointed at Quin’s head. Matheus reached out and pushed the barrel down.
“I remember this place,” Quin said, looking at Matheus, ignoring the others. “I’m not sure why.” He shifted, putting his feet on the floor, resting his elbows on his knees and folding his hands together. “You can tell me, can’t you?”
Matheus glanced at Milo, his eyebrows raised, jerking his head toward the end of the hallway. Milo nodded. He tucked away the elephant gun, and offered his arm to Heaven. They walked away, disappearing through the open door. Matheus exhaled. He needed to bring Milo with him more often. He’d have spent half-an-hour arguing before Alistair gave up and stormed off in a huff.
“This is where you were taken,” Matheus said. “The first time for sure, probably the second time, too.”
“You were here too?”
“For a while.” Matheus sat down next to Quin with the air of someone approaching a landmine.
“I remember other things. I had a house,” said Quin. “I came here after Venice. There was a man in a wig, and a woman. I remember arguing with Zeb. I don’t know why.”He frowned.”I don’t understand what is happening.”
“I know,” said Matheus.
Quin looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “I apologize.”
Matheus snorted. “For what? The list is running to phonebook length at this point.”
“For the police,” said Quin.
“Oh, good,” said Matheus. “I guess I can cross that one off.”
Quin let out a surprised laugh. He straightened, leaning toward Matheus. He traced his fingertips along Matheus’ jaw line, over the shell over Matheus’ ear. His fingers threaded through Matheus’ hair, his palm coming to rest on the back of Matheus’ neck.
Matheus held his breath. His hands curled into fists on his lap. Quin inched closer, his gaze searching Matheus’ face.
“I don’t know you, but…” said Quin. His gaze dropped to Matheus’ lips, his pupils widening to obscure the hazel irises.
“But what?” Matheus felt fifteen again, all awkward nerves, excitement locking his joints, a trembling, waiting statue.
“It’s like there is a hole in my mind,” said Quin. “And you fit right in.”
He leaned closer, his tongue pressing against his upper lip. Then with a sharp movement, he pulled away. Twisting, he brought his legs up, planting his feet on the bench, his narrow frame tucked into the corner. Quin looked at Matheus over his knees, his expression locked and bolted.
“Who are you?” he asked. “Why do I feel―?” He cut off with a slash of his hand.
“Feel what?” Matheus asked.
“Nothing.”
Matheus sighed. He stared at his shoes. Salt crusted the leather, one of the laces frayed to the point of snapping. Melting slush created a pool on the cement. Matheus traced out a pattern with the toe of his sneaker. He needed a pair of boots. Winter had three more months’ worth of snow to deposit.
Quin made a noise in the back of his throat. He nudged Matheus’ thigh with the toe of his shoe. He still wore the cheap suit, stained with blood and streaked with salt.
“You said we were bonded. Why didn’t you come when I called?” he asked.
“I was busy,” said Matheus.
“Hmm,” said Quin.
“I felt it.” Matheus rubbed his palms over his jeans. “I’m not going to jump whenever you snap your fingers.”
Quin cocked his head to the side. “We must fight a lot.”
“You have no idea,” said Matheus. He stood up. “Are you coming back with us?”
“Do I have a choice?” Quin asked.
“You could hop a train, rent a car. Plane travel might be a little tricky, but maybe you could ship yourself FedEx.”
“That is something I haven’t tried.”
“Wouldn’t have to worry about air holes.”
“Convenient.” Quin unfolded himself, rising. He adjusted his jacket, brushing a bit of invisible dirt off the lapel. “Unfortunately, I will be remaining here. There are gaps in my brain, and I intend to find out why.” He tugged at his cuffs, scowling as one the buttons popped off in his hand. “However, you will be buying me some new clothes, since I find myself currently broke.”
“Sorry,” said Matheus. “I’d return the money, but I need it.”
Quin shrugged. “I must have given it to you for a reason.”
“Probably to annoy me.”
“You don’t like money?”
“I don’t like being given money,” said Matheus.
Quin’s gaze went distant, travelling through Matheus. “It’s a rot,” he said, his voice deep and slow.
“Yes,” said Matheus.
“We’ve had this argument before.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t like this,” said Quin.
“At least you’re remembering things,” Matheus said.
Quin rolled his eyes. “I’m very comforted.”

To Be Continued…

the Author

 Amy Fecteau was raised and currently lives in southern Maine. At the moment, she is studying Computer Science, but that is subject to change. She attributes her sarcastic sense of humor to her quick-witted family.