Boogie Beach
The Record, Book 1
Winnie Winkle
© 2021 Winnie Winkle
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
For permissions contact:
[email protected]
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Published by JS Netwal, Publisher
3408 S Atlantic Ave. #128, South Daytona Shores, FL 32119
www.wwinkle.com
Created with Vellum
Dedication
This book is dedicated to Trace Mathews.
Beach babes forever!
Acknowledgements
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
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I’d like to thank Jennie Rosenblum for excellent editing, Melody Simmons for gorgeous cover art, Narelle Todd and S.E. Smith for teaching me how to navigate the world of writing. A special thank you to Deborah Kroh for making me laugh while creating during a tough year. I’m blessed to have such interesting and amazing women in my orbit.
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Every author has a safety net of friends and family. I’d like to thank Vera James, Julie Sutherland, and Mike Williams for lending inspiration to this work. I’d also like to thank the local beach bars of Ponce Inlet and Daytona Beach Shores for providing the opportunity to observe while sipping, especially Crabby Joe’s Pier, Down the Hatch, and Hidden Treasures. You have wonderful staff, which helped lend authenticity to my scenes.
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Daily, I’m grateful to my children for their love and continued support.
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For every reader who bought, read, left reviews, or contacted me to share their enthusiasm for my stories, thank you for your support. “Boogie Beach” is for you, and I hope you laugh yourselves silly.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
The End
About the Author
Just Released!
Excerpt from
Upcoming Release!
Let’s Get Social!
Other Books by Winnie Winkle
Chapter 1
The tide formed the familiar cross-hatch patterns, signaling a rip current to everyone, well, everybody but me. I knew better, but wished I wasn’t the sole human with this grand understanding. Most of the time seeing both sides had its perks, but when it didn’t… let’s go with Suckfest-9000.
The swells resembled ordinary waves nearing their crest, tops churning to a white froth, so I hung out on the tall pier, holding the space over the sand, watching a full, gorgeous moonrise over a close to high tide.
Perfect.
Moon shifts, both the full and the new, were the busiest and often the best nights, but it’s October, so I wasn’t taking any bets. The black waves grew shoulders, then bodies, and my guests moved onto shore, covered by the shadows of the pier. Faint pops, depending on their magic, sent them into my pub, while others took wing or climbed the steps; I continued to greet the arrivals for the other side of my business.
I owned and managed the Sun Dance Pier. Locals called it “The Boogie” but on the license it’s ‘Boogie Beach Crab Shack.’ At sixteen, I started waiting tables, then moved to the bar. Now, I was way past that, but I looked hot and saw the whole situation, so I’ve been the owner/manager for the last ten years. People with the sight, the true sight, were hard to find. To be fair, I could have made a good living in Cassadaga, a town an hour away that catered to psychics and healers, the edge eyes and the full seers, but I enjoyed the sea, even the darker sides, so I played this hand. The longevity wasn’t promising, the last manager didn’t make it to fifty-five, but who knew. Well, somebody in Cassadaga did, but I didn’t plan to ask.
Heavy steps struck the pier, announcing Poseidon, who sported a long white-blond mane, a speedo, and my resultant inner wince. God complex, personified. Why he wouldn’t wear board shorts was beyond me.
“Patra! Still seeking Cleo?” His roar of laughter foretold of a lengthy night of mismanaged alchemy.
“Welcome back, Sea King, looking for your usual?”
“Indeed I am, and a side of beauties,” his wink made me smile.
“Just because we painted the town before doesn’t mean I’m on the menu tonight, but several merwomen are here. Go charm them; they’re in the mood to party.”
“On it.” With a squelch he walked toward the door and it shimmered, letting him access the magic pub.
I suppose the backstory would help. Boogie Beach was the lost soul of Florida’s beaches. Decent surf without the draw of Daytona, although we got their overflow, nor the intellectual panache of Cocoa and the Space Coast. Boogie, or Boogey as my magical patrons called it, had the distinction of being on, as in right the exact hell ON, the line between reality and extraordinary. I ran a pub on the doorway to everything. Shifters, witches, merpeople, the Greek contingent, you name it. If it drank, it showed up and I could see it. That’s my entire skill set. Finite. I couldn’t magic my way out of a tough spot. Wits and crossed fingers were my complete arsenal. For the most part, it’s an honor to be seen as belonging to both worlds, but magic was both light and dark. Someday, I’ll run into the wrong entity, and that’ll be it. In a nutshell, that’s why I didn’t have a kid. It’s not a risk I’d run, because darkness seized opportunities, had no boundaries, or gave any fucks, flying or otherwise. The sight was mutual; I saw them, they saw me. Ergo, running this life solo. Fewer people got hurt and I’m screwed no matter what.
C’est la vie.
“Patra! Ever find Cleo?” Pook’s giggle lapsed into a snort.
“Jeez, Pook, you need new material,” Bingo flapped his wings and leaned his beak forward to touch my cheek in what passed for a pelican kiss.
“Are you joining us tonight?” I grinned, winking at Bingo.
Pook and Bingo were pelican shifters, and often stayed past closing’s edge, therefore stuck in the real world until the next new or full moon. Beach bums at heart, they rolled in both spaces with ease, just letting things flow.
“Hoo-man, we can’t miss October, Patra. It’s the frigging best!” Pook flapped and shifted into a scruffy longhair with a missing tooth.
Bingo jumped from the railing, shifting into a tall skinny guy with a growing pot belly. I gave him a look.
“Are there fish left in the sea? I’d guess you’re not missing many.”
“This?” Long thin fingers patted his protruding gut. “Your beer. Fish is clean eating, Patra.”
The pair walked along the dock and the door shimmered again. Show time. The magicals crossed throughout the night, but I was sole proprietor of the magical side of the bar. On the ordinary side, my staff kept the tourists, locals, and the lost ones fed and watered, the rest was on me.
Two-thirds of the way along the pier the bu
ilding stood, with two doorways. One was the cat-three rated glass hurricane double door, and the other could have originated on an ornate ship from 300 years ago. It’s grimy with the salt of centuries and won’t open unless the palm placed against it held a magical signature. I found it by accident at sixteen. Curious, I walked through and damn near pissed my shorts. Billy, the previous manager, glared and crooked his finger.
“My office.”
Panicked, I nodded, backing out the way I came, sure he’d fire me, and why not, I was hallucinating.
Billy gave me a long, considering look. “Can you see the door?”
“The wooden one?” I squeaked.
He sighed and leaned back. “I’m sorry, kiddo. I truly am.”
That began the job training to end all training. Until I turned eighteen, I worked in the non-magical dining room, but spent an hour before or after each shift studying with Billy. He kept a book in his office that smelled of the bottom of the sea. My assignment was to read it and answer Billy’s queries. It took two years before I never missed a question.
“You forget anything, you could perish,” he said, eyes serious and sad. “But, you will lead a life denied most, and make excellent money. Just expect to die young. Live in the moment, Cleopatra. You’ll have fewer of them.”
On the day I passed his test, he plunked me into the real bar and coached me on mixing drinks, watching for theft, and running a tight, stocked pub. I was eighteen, the whole thing was illegal as hell, but the authorities never asked questions.
“Oh, I know a witch or seven,” Billy said, when I questioned the illegality.
At twenty-one he shifted me to the magic side and taught me alchemy, how to make cocktails that would kill me if I drank them, and toughened up my thin skin. Magical drunk people tended toward loud and bawdy, and their idea of anything goes was not for the faint of heart. I learned, and in time, got good. For four years, Billy and I ran a secret bar, and it was orgasmic fun.
The ‘October of The Vapors’ changed everything. A late season hurricane coincided with a full moon. It was the damned trifecta of dark. Humanity experienced catastrophic damage, the winds destroyed buildings and landmarks; the sea flowed across the beach to the road, and the fury loosened the Vapors into the human world.
Vapors dwelled in the space between the planes and crossed under specific circumstances. They were dark. As in profound misery dark. Plus, they were hard as hell to vanquish once they showed up and started ruining everything.
The pier withstood the storm, thanks to the witches, but appeared damaged enough to not call attention to that fact. Billy ran the magic pub and made money, which I spent repairing the human side, prepping to re-open. Busy days, full of contractors and vendors, got the kitchen back in action and the roof restored.
“The Boogie is ready,” Billy told me that night as we reviewed the work, signed occupancy permit in hand. “You can open tomorrow.”
That conversation will stay with me until I die. Being young, I assumed he meant the restaurant. Busy with the human piece I never considered the Vapors, but Billy was under siege to keep the magic bar from blowing out with darkness. He never said it, but I believe, out of love, he kept them from me. They murdered him in the baneful middle of the night, threading their blackness through his pores as his shrieks covered the beach. A witch stopped his heart in mercy. She told me the story long after the shock faded and the resultant war pushed the damned Vapors back across the line. But that night, oblivious, I slept in my little house a few blocks away, the last innocent sleep.
Chapter 2
“Let me spoil mermen for you forever, dear girl.”
I shot Poseidon a look, the merwoman on his lap grinding away, and hoped the speedo held. To be fair, I’ve had a piece of that Posei-traction, and she’s in for a fine night, but he needed to remind her he didn’t blast blanks.
Except with me.
The werewolf before me drooled, and I shook up another Mooncraft, the only drink that kept the rampage at bay. Experience said he’d be on the floor in two more and Poseidon would get somebody to pop him under the dock until morning. The year someone misjudged the tide was unfortunate, but to our surprise, despite the fur, he floated, and a merman hauled him to shore after the setting moon checked his lunacy. Chelsea, a witch who was a friend, cast a spot on the sand near the sea wall that humans couldn’t see and now my drunks fed noseums if their alchemy got the best of them. A win-win.
The partition between my human and extraordinary bars was transparent, and Chelsea jerked her head toward it. Ballard was in the human bar; time to see if that’s business or pleasure. I scanned, drinks were full and heads together, so I opened the wood door and trotted into the restaurant. Chelsea often volunteered to watch the house for me when I had to go play manager on the real side, and for the most part she didn’t give away the booze, which rocked. She did it with the intention of benefiting magicals, but hey, it helped.
“Ballard, what brings you to The Boogie?” Tall, hard-bodied, and yum, we have a thing, but he was a cop, so we didn’t advertise.
“Looking for somebody, Patra. Have you ever seen this guy?”
He’s one of my werewolves, and it’s odd he’s not in my bar tonight, but easier, because while I had to dissemble with Ballard often, I didn’t enjoy lying to him. Lying with him, now, was an earthquake I was down for on the regular.
“Not here tonight, but he looks familiar.” I gave Ballard a bone here because he’d never find this guy. Most werewolves were rich as shit, and when they got their moon on were unrecognizable. Plus, wolf shifters were pros. After centuries of evading inconvenient humans, they’re bored. All they wanted was to locate their mates and do their thing. The one Ballard’s looking for was mateless, that’s why I’m surprised he wasn’t next door. It’s possible fate tossed him his lucky number.
Daytona’s former mayor was a werewolf. The better description was that a werewolf was elected mayor, at least until Bike Week fell on the full moon and the event went cartwheeling to hell. A PR nightmare ensued, Mayor Wolfie lost the next election, and pearls, the kind humans didn’t shove up their butts, were clutched. Amusing to those in the know, but when you had a dead girl, four deceased bikers, and a sated wolf, it put a damper on the party.
“Like to ask around and post this,” Ballard’s green eyes held mine, a crinkle in the corner promised morning wood when I slipped over there after closing time, and I nodded, for both activities. Smooth and unobtrusive, he moved through the building, catching waitstaff and bartenders, then engaging with several patrons, regulars who lived along the beach.
Ballard’s a good cop, and the intellectual exercise of staying ahead of him was a big piece of why we click. I couldn’t give him more and that’s a sore spot. He might have somebody else, which worked for me. Mystery girl will keep him together after something dark ripped me to shreds. Oh, happy day.
I snorted, earning a side-eye from Ballard, but I moved toward the kitchen to give that a once-over. Every evening was busy, but full moon nights I ran my ass into the ground; it’s a 3,000 calorie night, easy. Ballard gets to be top when I get there, and I’ll be content to let him work, burn me clean, and put me to sleep.
With a quick push through the kitchen’s back door, I squeezed past the festival of seagulls dive bombing my dumpster, made sure it was closed and latched, and palmed my way into the bar. Chelsea’s grin gave it away and I saw the top of Poseidon’s head bouncing as he nailed the merwoman in the men’s room. It’s more of a partition, but patrons liked the show and refused to let me remodel.
God or mortal, men just didn’t care. I suppose sex was germs, but Oy. With a head shake, I mixed Chelsea a drink and pushed it across the bar.
“On me.”
“Thanks, Patra. Your wolf is ready to topple, and I poured those mermen a round. One is unhappy with the god-magic happening in the back.”
Based on the sounds, the merwoman was more than happy with it, and the bets slapped down along the
bartop on how long she’d last. I covered the 3 minute mark and won the pot. Insider trading, but hey, I gotta make a living here.
Poseidon guided the staggering mermaid back to her seat, adjusting his speedo with a snap. He’s just getting started. I set a round before them and moved to refill the mermen, shading impotent over the situation.
“Not your desired outcome,” I commiserated, “but what can you do? He will never change.”
I left them glowering and eyed my wolf. Another Mooncraft should deliver the knockout punch. Good. Pour it strong. I shook the drink and moved in front of him. Quick, but not quick enough. Claws wrapped my wrist, one pushing into the tender, vein-filled underneath as he pulled me half-across the bartop, sending the Mooncraft off the edge.
“Wanna fuck?”
“Poseidon woke up your furry butt?”
“Let’s go, babe, I’ll nail you right here.” The wolf lifted me over the bar, flipping and dropping me on my stomach.
Shit, I’m one second from losing my shorts!
“At least have a drink with me.”
“One,” he growled, and I scrooched, the poster child for inelegance, along the bar, poured another Mooncraft that ought to drop an elephant shifter and grabbed a fat bourbon pour for me. A clink and we knocked them back.
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