Devi's Bliss: Bools 1-3

by Mika Lane

  “Yes, you did.”

  They laughed as the Jeep climbed the steep San Francisco hills back to Dakini’s apartment, bouncing over cable car tracks and avoiding jaywalking tourists out for a night on the town.

  At the top of the stairs leading to Dakini’s place, they caught their breath after racing up three flights. Dakini had won and stood victorious with her new painting tucked under her arm.

  But when she turned toward her front door, she froze.

  “Jake,” She said softly. “Does my front door look opened?”

  It was open, the locked clearly having been forced, the frame in splinters. Dim light flowed through open gap, and Dakini could hear shuffling from within.

  “Oh my god,” she whispered, her hand flying to her mouth. “What the…?”

  “Holy shit,” Jake said quietly. “Your apartment’s been broken into.”

  “No!” Dakini cried, running for the door. “My art collection!”

  But before she could enter, Jake caught her arm, pulling her against the wall. Lowering his voice another notch, he said, “Someone’s still in there. Call 911 and wait here.”

  “Jake, be careful.”

  Jake disappeared into the apartment as she called the police, her rage growing. Someone forcing their way into her home ignited a fury similar to what she’d felt in the past—that strangling emotion that had plagued and followed her for so many years. Every time she’d gotten up, that fury had gone and knocked her back down again, and had very nearly ruined her.

  Until now.

  With Jake helping her see what was possible, it would never knock her down again. She could and would stand up to the obstacles life threw her way, and blast through them like the boss that she was.

  She sent the new painting on the hallway floor. Fists clenched, she took a deep breath, and dashed into the apartment after him.

  In the living room near her Mac laptop, Jake had headlocked a tall, wiry guy wearing a hoodie sweatshirt and jeans. He squirmed and swore but couldn’t escape Jake’s solid grip. As the burglar twisted, Dakini gasped, recognizing him as none other than her noisy, asshole neighbor from upstairs. Her fury exploded.

  “What are you doing in my apartment, motherfucker?” Dakini screamed.

  “Screw you, bitch. You called the landlord on me one too many times. You’re gonna pay you little—”

  Jake’s fist flew, knocking the jerk out cold. He lay on the floor as blood slowly trickled out of his nose, down the side of his face, and onto his hoodie.

  She ran to Jake, her heart pounding. “Oh my god. Are you okay?”

  “I’m great, aside from sore knuckles.” He shook out his hand. “Not sure about our friend, here though.”

  The police sirens grew nearer.

  “What would I have done if you hadn’t been here?”

  Jake held her at arms’ length and looked at her. “Dakini, you would have known what do to. Don’t you see? You’ve always known what to do. You just had to do it.”

  He was right.

  The End

  If you enjoyed Dakini’s story, please leave a review on:

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  The Devi’s Bliss journey is continued in:

  Devi’s Bliss: a story of Isabella

  Order at Amazon

  keep reading for an excerpt…

  Prologue

  Despite the warnings running through her mind at a hundred miles per hour, the moment his lips brushed her neck she realized she needed him and his touch more than she’d ever needed anything in her life—more than she needed oxygen and her heartbeat, light and her sanity.

  And when a mysterious electric jolt returned to zap her again, it was all she could do to remain upright by grabbing fistfuls of his hair. Her head dropped back to bare more of her neck, and the shock of his touch disbursed into a thousand tingles that traveled directly to her sex.

  “Butterfly,” he murmured as his mouth found hers.

  Devi’s Bliss: a story of Isabella

  Dedication

  For my Dream Team—you know who you are

  And of course, Mr. Mika Lane

  Copyright © 2016 by Mika Lane

  Headlands Publishing

  4200 Park Blvd. #244

  Oakland, CA 94602

  Devi’s Bliss: a story of Isabella is a work of fiction. Names, characters, (most) places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s creativity or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of quotations in a book review.

  ISBN 978-0-9979771-6-5 (print)

  ISBN 978-0-9979771-3-4 (eBook)

  Edited by Trish Owens

  http://www.trishowens.net/

  Join Mika’s Insider Group

  www.mikalane.com

  Contact Mika

  Chapter 1

  Isabella Raven tore at the envelope, shredding the glued flap as she greedily dug for its contents. With shaking hands, she unfolded the paper inside as the trashed wrapper fluttered to the ground. She skimmed the notice that so officiously listed her social security number across the top.

  Dear Ms. Raven:

  Although you may have responded to previous notices, your tax issue is still not resolved. As a result, your account has been assigned to this Internal Revenue Service office for enforcement action, which may include seizing your wages or property. It is important we hear from you within 10 days from receipt of this letter…

  No, no, no.

  Fury spread through her as quickly as a gasoline-fueled fire. Tears stung at her eyes and she gulped at the dry lump in her throat. She’d been warned by others who’d had IRS problems that this could happen—that she could be hunted and harassed, her life made miserable. But it had seemed too draconian to be an actual possibility. She hadn’t believed—until now, anyway—that she could lose all she’d worked so hard for. Terrified by the possibility, she couldn’t—wouldn’t—let it happen.

  Like a nightmare you can’t wake from…

  She fell back on her living room sofa and stared through the tears blurring her vision at the ceiling of her Victorian row house apartment. The ornate molding and trim framing usually made her happy, but not today. No, today it seemed to be mocking her, reminding her that just when she thought she’d gotten life under control the universe could laugh at her with a big “Ha!” and yank the solid ground right from under her motorcycle boots.

  A rustling sound grabbed her attention and she slowly turned her head to see her tiny mutt, Taboo, chomping away at the envelope that had fallen to the floor. She should probably snatch the paper out of his mouth before he made a total mess, but felt a certain satisfaction watching his sharp little teeth demolish the words Department of the Treasury/Internal Revenue Service. Taboo looked up at her, pausing as if to see whether he was about to get in trouble for his offense. But when Isabella’s head fell back on the sofa and her gaze wandered up to the ceiling, the dog returned to his happy destruction.

  Yeah. Fuck you, IRS.

  After forty-five minutes of painstaking navigation through the congested streets of San Francisco, Isabella finally reached the stunning vista of the Golden Gate Bridge. She opened the throttle of her beloved FZ1 motorcycle to zoom around slowpoke sightseers taking selfies out their sunroofs and windows.

  In spite of her rotten, IRS-ridden mood, the tightness in her chest that had made it difficult to breathe dissipated when as the rolling Marin Headlands and hillside houses of Sausalito came into view on the far side of the bridge. There were certainly worse commutes people made every day, and this scenery cured most anything that bothered her. She cracked open her helmet’s face shield a quarter inch to inhale the wild rosemary that perfumed the air as she headed toward work at Devi’s Bliss, the famed spa where she was an in-demand, sensua
l massage therapist.

  Weaving in and out of the Highway 101 traffic, she attempted to clear her head in preparation for work but was only somewhat successful. More than anything at that moment, she wanted to banish the teeth-gnashing rage of knowing the IRS could do whatever they wanted to her, whenever they wanted, and that she had little or no recourse. In spite of making regular payments to reduce the debt dumped on her by her loser ex-husband, they showed no record of her payments because they kept losing her paperwork. As a result, they regularly and repeatedly threatened to seize her property, garnish her wages, and levy her assets. All because of The Asshole. Oh, for the chance to do things over…

  But she was doing things over. Her job at Devi’s Bliss paid well. She’d been able to put herself through college, a feat for someone whose childhood consisted of bouncing around from one foster home to another. And now, she was paying for her sister’s schooling. She had a gorgeous apartment in an old Victorian in San Francisco’s historic and funky Mission District. She regularly took rides up the California coast on her bike, one of the fastest money could buy and her absolute pride and joy—well, after the crazy, chewing dog, Taboo. Yes, she’d come a long way despite the lingering baggage of her loser ex, whose bad business decisions and ability to disappear like Houdini had left her to foot a massive tax bill. The gift that kept on giving.

  Isabella arrived at work and shut down her bike. Pulling off her helmet, she shook out the piles of hair she’d stuffed inside for the ride. She ran her fingers through the tangles as she headed into work, her leather pants crunching with every movement.

  Once inside, she inhaled the tangy essential oils—citrusy bergamot and grassy vetiver—that fragranced the spa. The tension in her muscles eased, thanks also in part to the flute melody trickling from well-hidden speakers. The spa’s ceiling fans twirled languidly, swaying the potted bamboo trees with their light breeze. For a moment, Isabella was transported back to the island of Bali, where she’d had the vacation of her dreams a few years earlier. It was there that she’d been introduced to the spirituality that led to her massage training and later, her position at the famed Devi’s Bliss. The IRS and their merciless incompetence faded to a million miles away. For the time being, anyway.

  “Hey there. So happy to see you.” Aurora, her best friend and coworker, looked up with a smile from organizing the day’s schedules at the reception desk. “Hope you’re ready for a busy shift.”

  “How come you’re sitting up here in reception? Where’s Devi?” Isabella asked, inquiring about her boss and the spa’s namesake.

  “She had a doctor’s appointment and asked me to cover. And Dakini’s not coming in today as you know,” Aurora said, referring to their fellow masseuse.

  “I heard the crazy news,” Isabella said. “Dakini caught her neighbor breaking into her apartment. Thank goodness she’s okay.”

  “No kidding. And it’s really great of you to cover her clients. But I’m warning you, it’s going to be a long day.”

  “That’s okay. I’m ready for it. I need the cash.”

  Aurora knit her brows as she looked at her friend.

  A study in contrasts, Isabella’s signature look included bright red lipstick and waves anyone would die for. But she also sported cycling leathers and a variety of piercings—some outwardly visible, and others hidden. Femme and butch, all at the same time, was how their lesbian boss, Devi, described her.

  “Don’t tell me the IRS is still after you?” Aurora asked, rolling her eyes.

  “Looks like it,” Isabella said, throwing her hands in the air. “I’ve been chipping away at what I owe, but I just got another letter. The fuckers claim no record of my payments. My case keeps getting bounced from one office to the other, and each time, I have to fight with someone new. This is the most god-awful maddening thing I’ve ever gone through. Except for being married to the loser ex.”

  “Oh, Isa. You have got to get that taken care of. Hire a lawyer.”

  “Yeah, well. You know how I feel about lawyers since my divorce. I’ll figure this out myself. Somehow.” Isabella rubbed her temple while she arched her neck. Yeah, somehow—how long had she been telling herself that?

  “You’d better figure it out some other time.” Aurora waved toward the treatment area. “You have a client waiting. Mr. P,” she added, using the spa’s code name for clients.

  Isabella glanced at the wall clock. “Oh right, on my way.” She leaned over the desk to give her friend a quick kiss on the cheek, then tore down the hall toward the staff room to get ready for her first client of the day.

  Moments later, wearing the short white kimono robe worn by all Devi’s girls, she twisted her hair into a messy topknot as she hustled to her waiting client. She took a deep, centering breath and tapped on the door to the Heart Chakra room where Mr. P was waiting. When there was no answer, she eased the door open and peeked inside.

  In the dim light, she found her client lying on his back, peacefully snoozing on the massage table. She couldn’t help but smile, and she had to quiet a little giggle.

  To avoid startling him, she slipped off her flipflops and tiptoed about the room. The rough, tatami floor mats massaged her bare feet, energizing her as she lit the candles that would allow her to do her work with the lights on low. On the chair in the corner she spotted a motorcycle helmet on top of her client’s folded clothes.

  He rides. Well, well. Mr. P.

  She stepped closer to the sleeping man until she stood directly over him. The next beat of her heart slammed so hard against her chest it took away her breath. What a sight to behold.

  He had thick tousled hair spiked with more than the occasional errant gray, a crooked nose—perhaps long-ago broken—and deep lines etching his face. From the look of his lined skin, he’d seen his share of the sun. His square jaw, heavy eyebrows, and salt-and-pepper hair gave him the rugged look of a cowboy from an old Clint Eastwood movie.

  As he inhaled, a small snore escaped his parted lips.

  Isabella had to keep herself from tittering out loud. She’d have to wake him in a moment. After all, no one came to Devi’s Bliss to take a nap. But before she got down to business, she was free to check him out all she wanted.

  He wasn’t handsome in a traditional sense, but who wanted a pretty boy anyway? Instead, the sleepy Mr. P nicely embodied her preference in men.

  Out of the corner of her eye, her client’s foot twitched. Another snore escaped his throat.

  If he were to wake up, he’d catch her staring at him like a crazy stalker.

  Her gaze ran over him one last time. A white sheet covered him to his chest, leaving exposed a tattoo-encircled bicep. She patted it to bring him back to consciousness.

  “Mr. P, it’s time for your massage,” she said in a soft voice.

  He shifted, but instead of coming to, settled into a deeper sleep, sighing and mumbling something incoherent.

  Oh cripes. How could this guy be awoken without scaring the bejeezus out of him?

  In her years as a masseuse, Isabella had many clients fall asleep during their massage but never before she’d even gotten started. And this guy was completely and totally conked out. Time to be a bit more assertive.

  “Mr. P, wake up,” she said louder as she shook his arm. “Can you wake up for your massage?”

  Still nothing. Except another snore.

  She shook him harder. “Mr. P!”

  Shit!

  His eyes flew open so fast and so wide that Isabella jumped back, banging into the massage room’s wall.

  “Whoa. What? Hi.” He looked around the room, his brows knit together. “Did I doze off?”

  Isabella peeled herself off the wall and approached him. “You certainly did. You looked so peaceful I didn’t want to wake you. But I don’t think you came in today just to take a nap.” She smiled at him. “Are you ready for your massage?”

  He stretched his arms and cracked his neck. “Damn. That mini snooze felt good. Whew. I guess I’m ready now f
or even more relaxation…what did you say your name was?”

  “Isabella. Isabella Raven. Nice to meet you, Mr. P.” She extended her hand, and he grasped hers.

  Holy shit.

  A jolt shook her arm when their flesh touched, causing her to jerk. Fortunately, he was too groggy to notice.

  Was that an electric shock?

  She could swear she saw him take a deep inhale of her scent, which was nothing more than Ivory soap and baby shampoo. Nevertheless, he held her hand, turning it a quarter twist to examine the tattoo on her inner arm, left uncovered by the short sleeve of her kimono.

  Was that admiration in his gaze?

  “Nice to meet you, Isabella Raven. Beautiful name. Is that really yours, or do Devi’s girls choose stage names?”

  “It’s my name,” she stated simply, her smile holding steady.

  “Whether that’s your given name or your chosen one, it’s very nice.”

  “Thank you, Mr. P.” She rubbed his arm to remind him why he was there. “We can get started on your massage if you’d like to turn over.”

  She held the sheet as Mr. P flipped to his belly and nestled into the face cradle that would allow his head to drop to a comfortable angle. He squirmed for a second to make room for his privates and then was still.

  With him finally facing away, his handsome ruggedness thankfully hidden, Isabella was able to relax and focus on the task at hand. She loved the work she did, and when she had a client that made her feel like this, well, it was just icing on the cake—even if it left her a bag of nerves.

  She peeled the sheet from his shoulders to his lower back, admiring the way the fabric draped over his muscular ass. She took a deep breath and ran her hands the length of his back, experiencing another charged jolt.

  What the hell is with this guy?

  She poured massage oil into her hands to glide more easily. Using her body weight, she added pressure to her long strokes. His breathing deepened, and he relaxed into the table.