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The Unlikely Pair
-- EXCERPT: It’s impossible sleep. Having so much of my body against the ground makes me even colder. It’s a cold I’ve never felt before, penetrating through to my bones. Every muscle in my body aches with a combination of overuse and cold, and my chest chimes in with the added complaint about bruising from the seatbelt. I’m so cold that I’m pretty sure my blood has turned into a slushie. If a vampire tried to take a sip right now, they’d get brain freeze. I shuffle and squirm, pulling my body into the tightest ball possible. “Are you cold?” Harry asks. There is absolutely no point in lying. “Yes. I’m freezing.” “I think we need to consider other strategies of heat retention,” Harry says. My teeth are almost chattering. “What do you mean?” “I mean, consolidating our heat by being in closer proximity.” It’s not his actual words but the distaste in his voice that clues me in to what he’s suggesting. Closer proximity…he can’t mean… Is Harry actually suggesting we snuggle? But even as part of my mind immediately rebels against the idea, the other, practical, freezing-my-arse-off part sees the advantage of his suggestion. Conserving heat is what is most important. And I’m so cold right now that I’d cuddle up to a porcupine with anger management issues if it meant I’d get slightly warmer. “I guess we could maximize the efficiency of the survival blankets that way,” I say. There’s a flash of light from where Harry is. The glow from his watch lights his face as he walks in my direction. He looks like he’s on his way to an execution. My mouth is weirdly dry as I pull myself into a half-sitting position. “Um…so how do you want to do this?” I ask as Harry settles awkwardly next to me on my bed of pine needles. “If you lie back down, I’ll lie behind you,” he says coolly. “What? I’m not going to be the little spoon.” His watch is still glowing, and the dim light is enough to see his scowl. “Well, neither am I. I am decidedly a big spoon,” Harry says firmly. “Well then, I’m an ice cream scoop.” “You’re a what?” “An ice cream scoop. Big enough to envelop all spoons of any size.” “I’m an inch taller than you, Toby.” “Ah, but my ice cream scoop persona is more about my personality than my size.” “Fine, if you’re an ice cream scoop, I’m a soup ladle.” “Actually, I think you’re more of a salad fork.” “Exactly how am I a salad fork?” “Formal, rarely needed, and incredibly pretentious,” I offer. Harry pinches the bridge of his nose for a few beats before he responds. “As incredibly productive as all this speculating about how our personality traits align with utensils, how about we agree to take turns? I’ll be the big spoon to start because it will keep you warmer, so hopefully, you’ll be able to sleep. When it’s my turn to sleep, you can spoon me. And tomorrow night, we’ll change the order of who gets to sleep first.” “Hopefully, by tomorrow night, we’ll be rescued, and having to snuggle close to you will just be a memory I’ll need extensive counseling to forget,” I say as I lie back down. “We can only hope,” Harry replies crisply. I arrange one of the survival blankets underneath myself to provide some insulation from the cold ground. Then Harry lies down behind me, pulling the other one over us. The only sound is the rustling of the blanket as he tries to arrange it around us, his movements careful and deliberate. I try to adjust to the reality of having Harry Matheson’s body pressed against me, his heat seeping through the layers of our clothing, his soft breath tickling the fine hairs on my neck. We’re both lying so stiffly a pair of cryogenically frozen lab rats could sub in for us. But it turns out there is one thing about Harry Matheson that I do like. His warmth. It envelops me, chasing away the chill that had settled deep in my bones. It’s like being spooned by a giant, sentient hot water bottle, except this one has a posh accent and a superiority complex. Harry’s arm settles across my waist tentatively, with the hesitancy of a man reaching into a lion’s cage, half expecting to pull back a stump instead of a hand. 
GIVEAWAY! --
Seeing Gray
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble -- BOOK TRAILER:
GIVEAWAY! --
In the Time of Spirits
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / Kobo -- EXCERPT: The group settled around the table and sang a hymn, just like the many other sessions Addy had attended. But this one felt profoundly different. She held herself straight, as if the solidness in her spine could translate to her resolve to make it through the evening. The group joined hands, and the powder she knew was on William’s hand burned into her conscience. But she made no mention of it, only sat grim-faced in the dark as those around her received their messages, which she hoped were still legitimate amid the spectacle. The guests seemed satisfied with them, at least. She stayed silent later as she felt William’s foot slip from his shoe to work the string and as a few droplets of water sent bright sparks flying into the air; she oohed and aahed with the rest of them as the phosphorescence also highlighted her dress and hands. She had, she knew, become part of the farce. Back at the hotel that night, the dark secrets of the séance room still hung over Addy and William, with Addy struggling to speak beneath their weight. Finally, William spoke as he packed away his tools. “You did a good job tonight. Thank you.” The praise Addy had wanted to hear for so long fell flat against her ears. She said nothing and continued brushing her hair, enjoying feeling its cool reality slide between her fingers. William sighed. “Is there something you want to say to me, or are you going to pout all night?” She set down the brush with a slight click against the glass top of the dressing table. “I don’t know what to say, William. It’s too big.” “What does that mean, ‘it’s too big’?” It was Addy’s turn to sigh. “Let’s just go to bed. We can talk about it in the morning.” She slid into bed, her back turned coldly toward his side. She heard him pause, considering; then he turned out the light, grabbed his coat, and went back out into the night. 
GIVEAWAY! --
The Moon Run
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo -- EXCERPT: Finley Clarke would never get used to hurling across the desert at hundreds of miles an hour in a small metal tube. Most people saw her ship with its faded red paint flying toward the city and thought she was a talented pilot, especially because she stayed in first place for the entire race. Finley never bothered to tell anyone that in the last few minutes of every race, she had barely any control of the ship. Even now the joystick vibrated violently in her hands as she pushed it forward, surrounded by the endless buttons and knobs she’d meticulously memorized. Just a little bit more. Behind her in the navigation chair sat her copilot, Cayne. He faced backwards, his attention on the many monitors in front of him. They took up the entirety of the back of the small ship so that he needed to crane his neck to see every screen. Every so often, he would type something to check on the ship or the location of the other racers. “We’ve got one coming up behind us.” “I’m not worried about it. We’re too far ahead of the others for someone else to take first place now,” Finley said, but she kept an eye on her radar as the small dot behind them grew closer. “Don’t get too cocky, Fin. It’s Garis,” Cayne cautioned. Finley smirked. “Don’t worry about him. Just worry about who’s buying the first round once we win.” Cayne laughed. “It’ll be me. Always me.” “That does seem to be the case, doesn’t it?” She’d been paired with Cayne a few years into her racing career, and their winning streak hadn’t stopped since. Finley knew Cayne was responsible for most of her wins. There was no one else she wanted as her copilot. A third voice came over the communicators. Deep and gravelly. “Don’t spend money you haven’t won yet.” Cayne laughed. “How about joining us, Bhizin? Our agent needs to celebrate with us once in a while.” “I prefer to swim in my money instead of spending it on drinks.” Finley sighed as her eyes narrowed on the flat, sandy terrain before her. “Later, guys. I need to concentrate.” The small outline of the city grew closer. She pictured the crowd waiting for the ships to come roaring through the finish line. Her and Cayne climbing out of their ship to cheers as the president of The Moon Run handed them a trophy while they wore first place medals. The next few days would be filled with the flash of cameras, the shaking of hands, and multiple interviews. And then, just like that, they would start it all over again as they entered their next race. But they weren’t there yet. “Hang tight. Garis coming up on your left,” Cayne said. “It doesn’t make sense. I don’t understand how he’s caught up to us so fast.” Out the left side of the cockpit window, another ship the same size as theirs steadily made its way past. It kicked up a cloud of dust, making it nearly impossible to see anything. Somehow, Finley’s grip tightened even more on the joystick. “Why is it always Garis?” “You’re both evenly skilled. A good rivalry makes for good races and more bets,” Cayne said matter-of-factly. “I still haven’t forgiven him for that last race in Keveka,” she yelled over the rumbling of the cockpit. “We should have won.” “Point three seconds is point three seconds,” Cayne said, mimicking Bhizin. Finley held in her groan as she eyed a small switch on the dashboard. One quick push and it would give them a small burst of speed. “Easy there,” Cayne said. “How did you know I was thinking of using it?” “Whenever the sprint to the finish line is between you and Garis, you always want to use it.” “Well, you did say to only use it for emergencies, and this is as good a time as any.” Finley flipped up the case covering the switch. “Hang on.” “I don’t know if this is a good idea.” “It’s this or lose.” With a satisfying click, she pushed the switch down. The ship rattled and shot forward, pushing Finley back into her seat. They flew through the sand cloud, past Garis’ ship, and back into the lead. She risked taking her eyes away from the window to look at him as they passed. Garis sat in his cockpit with his head down. The visor on his helmet obscured his face, so she couldn’t be sure if he saw them or not. Finley waved anyway before focusing back on the race. “Are you happy with yourself?” Cayne asked. “Of course,” she answered. “How much farther to the finish line?” Before Cayne could answer, Garis’ ship pulled up next to them. Red light filled the tiny cabin as an alarm sounded in the cockpit. “He’s way too close. You need to take evasive maneuvers, Fin,” Cayne yelled. 
GIVEAWAY! --
Wicked Suspicion
-- EXCERPT: “How are we supposed to play out a fake engagement when we know nothing about each other?” “We’ll have to manage. Your name is really Nyx? You didn’t lie to Vargas, right?” “It’s really Nyx. I guessed his men would locate the Jeep I rented, search it, and find the rental paperwork. I thought it would go worse if I didn’t tell the truth.” The merc nodded. “You’re smart and able to think quickly. Good. We’re going to need that to pull off this charade.” They needed a miracle to get through this, but she kept that to herself. “You know my name, but all I know is Vargas called you Señor Case.” “I go by Charlie Case.” Go by. He might as well say he was using the alias Charlie Case. “Do you want me to call you Charlie?” “No.” The answer came immediately. “Charles? Chuck? Chas? CC?” No response. Yep, Charlie was not his real name. “Do you have a nickname I could use?” “I have a handle, but it’ll sound strange to Vargas if you use it.” The man was annoying the hell out of her. “I have to call you something. Tell me the nickname and I’ll offer my opinion on how usable it is.” Frowning, he said, “My buddies call me Lurch.” “Lurch?” It was sheer dint of will that kept her voice low. Her brother’s best friend was Lurch. It was a Special Forces thing that everyone had a handle of some sort. Although she’d never asked, she suspected it was about security, but her brother went next level. He’d given her a nickname when they were kids—one she hated—and he used it all the time. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually called her Nyx. Was this the same Lurch? The one her brother trusted? She’d only seen a picture of him once. Dylan with his three buddies. Nyx recalled him enlarging the image for her, pointing at them as he gave her their handles. “This is Ollie,” he told her. “That’s Mick, and that’s my best buddy, Lurch.” Nyx leaned closer to the mercenary. The man in the picture had a military-short haircut and no facial hair, and she did her best to see through the merc’s scruff. “I told you,” he said. “You can’t use my handle.” Ignoring him, Nyx tried to superimpose the face of this man over her memory of that picture. Yes, this was Dylan’s best friend. As surprise gave way to certainty, she tightened her lips. She’d talked to Dylan a couple months ago. He, Lurch, Ollie, and Mick had gone on a fishing trip, and he’d made an offhand comment about it being touch and go that Lurch would get leave. Dylan wouldn’t be friends with a merc, especially one with loose enough morals to be a gunrunner. Mere weeks ago, Lurch had been in the Army. It didn’t take much to connect the dots. She couldn’t tell Lurch she knew who he was, or that she was Dylan’s sister. Even with the shower running, the risk was too great. Nyx would pretend his cover story was truth even when they were alone. It was the only way to protect his mission. It was the only way to protect him. Because this man was not a mercenary. He was US Army Special Forces, and he was on a covert op. 
GIVEAWAY! -- |
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