First Dates

by Katie May

  First Dates

  Supernaturalette

  Katie May

  Expresso Publishing, LLC

  Copyright © 2020 by Katie May

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Edited by Expresso Publishing, LLC

  Cover by Ink Imagination

  To all the dicks

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Supernaturalette - Round Two

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Katie May

  Introduction

  Welcome back!

  This is the second installment of Supernaturalete, an interactive series.

  How this works: After every installment, I will place polls in my group. You guys will vote for your favorite - and least favorite - men. Your favorites will get special rewards, such as private dates, group dates, and alone time with Ridley. There will also be options to eliminate men. If the contestant has enough votes, he will be eliminated from the competition.

  Basically, this is Build-a-Harem! Ridley will end up with as many men as you, the reader, decide!

  Make sure to join Katie’s Gang to vote. Group members will receive a notification when each installment is released. The voting will take place exclusively there for the first week after each installment. Your votes will determine what I write next.

  So, buckle up! This is about to be one hell of an adventure…

  Chapter 1

  I stare in wide-eyed horror at the ominous message painted in red on the wall. On the ground, Ali’s lifeless body lies in a pool of her own blood.

  I know the truth. Give me the book or everyone dies. Do not tell a soul.

  I swallow the walnut-sized lump down and stare at the slightly smeared words. That’s all I can do: stare. Words fail to encapsulate this moment.

  Someone killed Ali. Someone here at the house.

  All because I possess a spell book capable of raising the devil.

  A cold chill chases down my spine as I blink rapidly, attempting to comprehend what I’m seeing and why. Ironically enough, this isn’t the first time my secrets have killed someone, but for an unexplainable reason, this feels more personal.

  “What the fuck do I do? What do I do? What do I do?” I sob, bringing my hands up to my face. Grant steps around the still crying cook and wraps me in his arms. His familiar scent of cinnamon and peppermint curls around me. I’ve always felt so safe in his arms, so secure, as if the rest of the world can’t possibly touch me. Maybe it’s just him and the feelings he evokes within me. My demons aren’t too hard to fight with him by my side.

  “Ridley, I need you to tell me the truth. Can you do that, baby? Can you tell me the truth?” I drop my hands to stare up at him, my eyes blurry with tears. I know that protocol dictates that he search the premises and contact headquarters, but I’ve always come first to him.

  Except for that one time.

  I shove those memories away and lose myself in his embrace.

  “I did something really, really bad,” I whisper into his neck. His black tattoos climb up his skin like gossamer spiderwebs. I had once kissed each and every one of them, memorizing them through my touch alone.

  “Whatever it is, we can get through it, okay?” I begin to tremble in his arms.

  “The book…” I whisper hoarsely, finally pulling away to stare into his eyes. “I have it. Or, a copy of it. I have it.”

  His brows scrunch together in confusion, lips pursed, before understanding dawns on his handsome face. His eyes widen in horror, but he doesn’t release me. He doesn’t step away.

  “Ridley…”

  “Don’t,” I warn vehemently. “Don’t say a damn thing.”

  He presses his lips in a grim line but nods once. He has no right to judge me, not after what he did.

  Eight Months Earlier

  I sprint up the steel staircase of my apartment complex, heart hammering a mile a minute. A beatific smile is firmly on my face as I take the corner a mile a minute.

  Of course, I don’t see Mallory Rose until I run into her, chest to head. I’m not tall by any means, but Mallory barely reaches my chin. The eighty year old woman is bedecked in her signature floral dress with a pearl necklace and matching bracelet.

  Her head ricochets off my boobs, and she releases a startled gasp. I quickly reach out to steady her, but she swats me away, a sneer firmly in place.

  “I don’t see a wedding ring on your finger yet,” she says snidely, pointing towards my ringless finger. It’s the same thing every damn time I see her. And here we go… “It’s uncouth for an unmarried lady to—”

  “Be living with a man,” I finish, rolling my eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. But, Mallory? I’ve never been a lady.”

  I have the immense satisfaction of seeing her face turn beet red before I saunter inside my apartment, mentally high-fiving myself.

  The floor plan is modest with only two bedrooms and one bathroom. Immediately once you enter, you see the ornate, modern kitchen to the left and a hallway to the right. The living room is separated by a single divider painted a creamy shade of peach. The hallway leads to the master bedroom and office, the bathroom between them.

  It’s the office I head to first, stepping on my tiptoes so as to not be overheard. Giggling into my hand, I push open the door, grateful that we had recently oiled the hinges.

  Grant sits with his back to me in front of his distressed wooden desk, completely oblivious to my arrival.

  Using my ninja skills (read as: accidentally stubbing my toe on the edge of the bookshelf and mouthing curses to no one), I step up behind him and place my hands over his eyes.

  “Guess who?” I tease lightly.

  “This better be my girlfriend, or else she’s going to light your ass on fire,” he answers immediately, swiveling in his chair and pulling me onto his lap.

  “That was one time!” I protest immediately as his arms band around me like iron vises.

  He nuzzles my neck, his deep, throaty chuckle reverberating through me. “Still hilarious though.”

  “She sued me for harassment,” I counter immediately. “And do you remember the first court hearing? When I was trying to show the judge what happened? When I accidentally—”

  “Set the courthouse on fire,” Grant finishes, nipping my earlobe. “I was there. With my clothes on fire. I remember.”

  I groan, covering my face with my hands. Fortunately, no one was hurt and the judge actually had a demented sense of humor. I had to use my magic to fix the building, but that was the only punishment I received. Small blessings, I suppose.

  “Oh! I have something to tell you,” I say eagerly, interlocking my fingers behind his neck. He lowers his head to kiss the crook of my neck.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Oh hell yeah. Guess who’s in the running to be the new CSI?” I’m practically bouncing on his lap at this point in my excitement. The previous CSI—some dude named Jerry—was found shoving a banana down a corpse’s mouth. Don’t ask me why.

  Please. Don’t.

  As the SUP’s official CSI, I would be the first one at all the crime scenes, investigating both the body and the surroundings. If I perform my job diligently enough, there’s a high probability I’ll be made an official agent.

  Sure, that isn’t how they do things
in the human world, but it’s how we do things in the supernatural one.

  This job? It’s fucking mine. I’m determined to spank it and make it my bitch.

  Don’t quote me.

  Robert Simmons is the director, and the only man capable of helping me achieve my dreams. And he just so happens to be Grant’s father.

  At the time, I don’t notice how still Grant becomes underneath me. How quiet. I don’t see the pensive frown that curls down his lips or the way his eyebrows scrunch together.

  I’m too blinded by my own happiness, my own dreams. I can practically taste it—everything I ever wanted wrapped in an immaculately dressed box with a pretty red bow. But that box is laden with explosives, unbeknownst to me.

  “Grant?” I ask cheekily. “Maybe you could talk to your dad…?”

  “I can-can try,” he stutters out at last.

  I squeal, clapping my hands together, and lower my mouth to his neck. My hand immediately cups his cock through his dress pants.

  “Let’s celebrate,” I whisper breathlessly.

  Because by this time next week, I’ll have my dream boyfriend and my dream job. What more can a girl ask for?

  “Ridley?” Grant cradles my face between his large, heavily calloused hands. “Do you trust me?”

  I blink at him rapidly, his words coming to me in a foreign language I can’t quite comprehend.

  “Do you trust me?” he repeats desperately. His shotgun shell eyes stare intently at me before flickering to the dead body, then to the crying cook, and then to the blood-painted words.

  “Yes,” I manage to huff out at last. “I trust you.”

  And I do, despite our rocky relationship.

  His shoulders physically deflate as if my confession has lightened the load he’s been carrying. He tightens his hands imperceptibly on my shoulders once before releasing me.

  “The murderer is here,” he states matter-of-factly. “It could be a crew member or it could be one of the competitors. But he—or she—is here with us.”

  Stepping away, he offers a hand to the sobbing chef and helps her to her feet. She’s an older woman, maybe mid-fifties, with graying hair and a heavily wrinkled face.

  “So what do we do?” I question, steeling myself. My years working for SUP haven’t made me desensitized to death, but it has allowed me to have a better grasp on it. I can pull myself together long enough to figure this out.

  I have to.

  “We don’t call it in,” Grant says, scrubbing a hand through his tousled black hair. “We don’t report this. We might be able to draw the fucker out if we act like nothing’s wrong. The banshee will have more than likely forgotten about his death prediction, so we don’t have to worry about him.” He turns towards me then, his eyes rendering me speechless and immobile. “But only if you want to. I would never put you in danger, Rid. You have to know that. I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

  “You want to use me as bait,” I say softly, and his face twists, as if the idea pains him. After a moment, he nods once.

  “I believe it’s our best course of action if we want to stop this fucker.”

  And…

  And I know he’s right. I also know Grant would never knowingly put me in harm’s way, especially for a case. He honestly believes he can protect me from whatever threat we face. His logic is sound, and I know I would’ve come to the same conclusion in time.

  For now, I will continue competing on the Supernaturalette.

  And when I’m not on camera, I’ll be investigating a murder.

  The joy of being me, am I right?

  Chapter 2

  I leave Grant in the kitchen to interview the cook. A part of me wants to investigate this with him step by step, but I know my absence will cause more questions than we need. For now, I have to trust that he can handle this without me.

  Of course, I’m a total back seat driver type of gal, and I can’t resist throwing in my own two cents.

  “Get a record of every crew member, when they were hired, and how long they’ve been with this production company.”

  “Get a full background check on everyone here.”

  “Check around the body for bullets. Maybe we can find the murder weapon.”

  “See if Ali has any enemies, any person who would want her dead.”

  “Is it a straight shot? Was she taken by surprise? Did she know the shooter—” Before I can finish, Grant captures my cheeks once more and slams his lips onto mine. I instantly soften against him, loving the way his tongue plays with my own almost lazily. We’re currently standing in the middle of a fucking murder scene, but I’ve never felt more loved. Crazy, right? And then I remember how furious I still am with him, how badly he hurt me, and that blossoming love withers and dies.

  “Go,” he urges. “We’ll talk later.”

  With a reluctant glance at Ali’s still form, I pick up my dress and hurry away.

  The mansion is so big that I don’t run into anyone as I step into the room designated as mine for the next few months. It’s surprisingly spacious with a large, king-sized bed directly in the center. The plush white bedspread contrasts nicely with the golden trim on the pillows. A similarly colored canopy hangs overhead. Against the far wall is a wooden dresser and wardrobe, all consisting of posh, elegant dresses. Opposite that is a en-suite bathroom with a claw-footed tub, glass shower, and toilet. The entire room screams opulence and wealth—ironic, considering I once lived an entire month on ramen noodles and fruit snacks.

  This isn’t me.

  Fuck, this isn’t me.

  That one thought rattles around in my brain as I hurry to my wardrobe and pull open the heavy doors. Dresses of all colors grin cheekily back at me, and I can’t help but feel as if they’re mocking me. Completely irrational, I know, but you try meeting twenty-five guys and then seeing a dead body in a span of hours.

  I choose the dress closest to me and quickly slip it on. It’s long-sleeved and a dark purple, fishtailing around my ankles. The top half is see-through, revealing my modest white bra with a tiny bow in the center. Oh well. At least there’s no blood on this one.

  Small victories, I suppose.

  I take a brush to my dark curls, only allowing myself to breathe when I look somewhat normal.

  You got this, Rid. So what if one of these men might be a murderer?

  Hands trembling, I grab my phone from my clutch and dial Greta’s number.

  Like before, she answers on the first ring.

  “If you’re not sending me pictures of dicks, then don’t bother calling. Girl, you should be sampling these guys like you’re at a car shop. Take them out for test drives.” There’s a pause as she shoves popcorn—her newest obsession—in her mouth. “Vroom their engines. Oil their parts. Caboom—”

  “Grant’s here,” I blurt out, and her tangent cuts off abruptly.

  “What?” she finally asks, and I know I have finally captured her complete and undivided attention.

  “He’s here. And he says he loves me. And...”

  And there’s a murderer on the loose.

  But I don’t say that. The last thing I want to do is unwittingly place Greta in danger.

  My bestie is silent for a moment, mulling over this information, before she finally speaks again. “What are you going to do?”

  “Honestly? I don’t know. I agreed to be on this show to get over Grant Simmons, but now that he’s here…”

  “You remember how much you love him,” she finishes, resuming her snacking. “Look, I don’t have any advice. You know how I feel about the whole Grant thing. All I can say is follow your heart. And if your heart leads you back to him? Then so be it. You don’t have to stay with him just because you have history. People fall in and out of love all the time.”

  “But what if I never fell out of love to begin with?” I whisper, voicing the thing I suspected for months but never put into words.

  “Then maybe give him a second chance.” I can’t see her, but I imagine s
he’s shrugging. “Or don’t. Only you can fully decide that. But think about this… are his actions forgivable? Can you truly move on from the hurt? Once you answer that, you’ll be able to decide if you want a second chance with him. The man’s crazy in love with you, but he also hurt you in the worst way. Don’t downplay your hurt, Rid. Because it’s real and it’s ugly, but it also makes you human. If you don’t ever hurt, you can’t ever truly love.” There’s a prolonged pause as Greta shoves another handful of popcorn into her mouth. “Shit, I have to go. Rachel and Helio will be here any minute.”

  “Still seeing them?” I question. Rachel and Helio are a married couple who Greta recently became involved with. According to my best friend, polygamy is the shit.

  It’s why she’s so adamant I need a harem.

  “I’m going to go suck a lot of titties and dicks,” Greta says with an evil laugh.

  “Ew.” The last thing I want to hear about is my best friend’s—practically sister—sex escapades.

  “Taste that nip while he pounds into my lady cave—”

  “Yup. I’m hanging up.”

  “Get a harem!” she screams before I can press the red button. “Be like the cool kids!”

  I click my phone off and toss it onto my bed. Staring at my reflection in the mirror above my dresser, I take a deep, fortifying breath. I can do this. I can go downstairs, finish tonight, and act like I’m not falling apart at the seams. Like my first love hasn’t returned and isn’t currently covering up a murder.

  Get a harem, she says.

  I’ll be lucky if I finish this show with my life.

  All of the men are lined up on risers when I step into the spacious living room. A large chandelier hangs from the ceiling, tinting everything in hues of gold. Like the rest of the house, the room is a clash of modern and historic with century-old woodwork interspersed with paintings and a flatscreen television.