by RJ Blain
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Titles by RJ Blain
Playing with Fire
A Magical Romantic Comedy (with a body count)
by R.J. Blain
Warning: This novel contains excessive humor, action, excitement, adventure, magic, romance, and bodies. Proceed with caution.
What do you get when you mix gorgons, an incubus, and the Calamity Queen? Trouble, and lots of it.
Working as the only human barista at a coffee shop catering to the magical is a tough gig on a good day. Bailey Gardener has few options. She can either keep spiking drinks with pixie dust to keep the locals happy, or spend the rest of her life cleaning up the world’s nastiest magical substances.
Unfortunately for her, Faery Fortunes is located in the heart of Manhattan Island, not far from where Police Chief Samuel Quinn works. If she’d been smart, she never would have agreed to help the man find his wife.
Bailey found her, all right—in the absolutely worst way possible.
One divorce and several years later, Bailey is once again entangled in Chief Quinn’s personal affairs, and he has good reason to hate her. Without her, he wouldn’t be Manhattan’s Most Wanted Bachelor, something he loathes. Without her, he’d still be married.
If only she’d said no when he asked her help, she might have had a chance with him. While her magic worked well, it came with a price: misfortune. Hers.
When Quinn’s former brother-in-law comes to her for help, he leaves her with a cell phone and seventy-five thousand reasons to put her magic to the test. However, when she discovers Quinn’s ex-wife is angling for revenge, Bailey’s tossed in the deep end along with her sexiest enemy.
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 or author excluding the use of brief quotations in a book review.
© 2017 Pen & Page Publishing
For more information or to contact the author, please visit rjblain.com.
Cover design by Holly Heisey (hollyheisey.com)
Susan and Caity,
Thanks for sticking with me through the eleventh hour. It was rough, but we got through it. I simply don’t have the words to express how much I appreciate your company in the trenches. I really couldn’t have done this without you.
Di,
This book is all your fault. I hope you’re happy with yourself!
To answer your question, yes, I will be doing another story about Bailey and Quinn in the future. Prepare the bribes. You’re going to need them.
Aunt Wendy,
You would have liked this one. I hope your heaven is full of books, music, and friends. You deserve it.
We miss you.
Chapter One
No one in their right mind would ever license me as a private investigator, but that didn't stop people from coming to me when they needed something found. Fortunately, I liked my job as the only human barista at Faery Fortunes Coffee and Book Shop. Most came for a cup of joe and left too buzzed to read a thing, but who was I to complain? People paid top dollar for their pixie dust infused latte, and they tipped me well not to judge them.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t so fond of Chief Quinn. When he walked through the door, bad things usually happened to someone—me. For him to come in five minutes after opening, long before the sun even thought about rising, he needed something, and it wasn’t a cup of coffee. Why couldn’t he want coffee? I could deal with making him a drink, and I’d double his dose of pixie dust to keep him happy.
I gave the espresso machine a defiant swipe of my cleaning cloth before stepping to the counter to deal with Manhattan’s Most Wanted Bachelor. Without my help, he’d still be married, too.
What a way to start the day.
And to think people wondered why I refused to help find anything for anyone anymore. The reason stood across the counter from me. Chief Samuel Quinn, aged thirty, hotter than sin, and my heaven and hell rolled together in one smoking tall, dark, and handsome package, hated me for good reason. It was his fault, too. He had been the one to ask me for help finding his wife. I had found her all right, right in the middle of teaching a college stud the nuances of the reverse cowgirl.
If no one asked me to find something or someone again for the rest of my life, I’d be a very happy woman.
“Chief Quinn, what a pleasant surprise,” I lied. “Can I get you something? A dark roast, cream, no sugar, light on the dust?”
Why couldn’t I have been blessed with forgetfulness? I knew my worst nightmare’s favorite drink, and I had to make it for him first thing in the morning. Of course I knew it. He came in at least three times a week to torment me. Screw it. Who was I kidding? Instead of the coffee, he could take me instead. If I had to put up with the hassle of dealing with him, why couldn’t I enjoy it, too?
“Cream, no dust, and make it a large, Bailey.”
Alarm bells tinkled in my head. Since when did Chief Quinn address me by my first name? On a good day, he snapped my last name like he worried it would contaminate him. “Of course, sir.”
The faster I made his coffee, the sooner he’d go away. I’d love every second I spent watching him go. In less than a minute, I had his drink ready, and to lower the risk of him spending any extra time with me, I chirped, “It’s on me today, Chief Quinn. Have yourself a nice morning.”
If it meant we parted without incident, it’d be well worth the five bucks.
He saluted me with his cup, flashed a hint of a smile, and walked out the door. Facing him was hell, but I glimpsed the heavens when he left, and if my panties hadn’t caught on fire under my jeans, I’d be very, very surprised.
“You’re drooling, Gardener,” my boss squeaked. The moth fairy, with just enough pixie heritage to dust glitter when she wanted, fluttered over my shoulder, her tiny arms crossed over her chest. “Reverse cowgirl.”
“Stop reminding me!” I wailed, slumping over the counter. “He hates me. Worse, all I think about when he struts in is taking off my clothes and giving him my panties. I think they caught on fire this time, Mary. Why couldn’t he have had one of his cops find his wife instead?”
“You just want to indulge in some guilt-free fantasizing like every other hot-blooded American woman in the city.”
“Exactly. This is why no one in their right mind asks me for help. I ruin everything.”
“Except my coffee, which is a miracle. Now that we’ve had our daily dose of excitement, can you handle the shop on your own for an hour? We’ll call it even on the coffee.”
Was she serious? Alone for an hour on a Monday morning forty minutes before rush hour? If she thought I’d be all right alone, she was completely cracked. I could already hear her if I dared to complain about my shift. What could possibly go wrong in an ho
ur? Didn’t I like my job? The list went on and on and on. I smiled so I wouldn’t cry. “Sure, Mary. I can last an hour.”
“You’ve gotten better at lying. Your smile didn’t even slip that time. Try not to die while I’m gone. Good humans are so hard to find.” Mary zipped out of the shop through the pixie door and dove through the window of an idling sports car.
Wait.
Sports car? Red, convertible, top up despite the nice summer morning? I leaned over the counter and squinted. Yep. My boss had just ditched me for a ride in Chief Quinn’s car. Sometimes life really wasn’t fair.
Ten minutes after Mary left, every centaur in the city decided to hold a convention in the shop. Not a single one of them seemed to notice—or care—they barely fit through the door. Equine, bovine, and God-only-knew-what bodies crammed together, waiting for their chance to get a taste of pixie dust goodness.
I lost track of the number of species, wondering what sort of idiot decided to call them all centaurs; maybe they got tired of trying to come up with names for them. By the time the first cat hybrid showed up, I decided to just skip past questioning my sanity to weary resignation and kept making coffee.
Since asking a centaur for his species classified as rude, I plastered my best smile on my face, swallowed my curiosity, and asked, “What can I get for you, sir?”
“Small latte, extra dust.” He slapped a pair of twenties on the counter. If he’d wanted B-grade dust, he would’ve dropped a ten and left with change, so I rang him up for an upgrade to something a bit better. While we kept all four types of A-grade in stock, we only offered A and A+ to regular customers.
Without a permit, no one got the best stuff, and I thanked God for that each and every day. It was only polite; I never knew if the poor bastard stuck with the portfolio was listening.
“Keep the change, my guardian angel.” While the cat hybrid centaur thing had a human face, orange and black fur covered his skin, and when he smiled, he showed his sharp, pointy teeth.
I checked for wings just in case. Stranger things had happened on shift. “Was my halo showing?” I took his cash, tossed the extra fifteen dollars into my tip jar, and fetched his drink, handling the tiny vial of A-grade dust with care. The last thing I needed was to give everyone in the shop a high they’d remember for years to come.
With a fifteen buck tip and a customer to keep happy, I took advantage of Mary’s bribe box on the way back to the counter, snagging a catnip bag. A happy feline mauled no one, including me. “Here you are, sir. Have a great day.”
With that much pixie dust in his system, if the centaur cat wasn’t grinning from ear to ear by the time he made it half a block, I’d be shocked. Of all the legalized recreational drugs, pixie dust brought the high without the low, impaired so few people no one bothered to test for it, and single-handedly fought off the weekday blues for those who could afford it.
I sure as hell couldn’t, even if the dust worked for me, which it didn’t. I balked at a five buck coffee. Twenty-five for a morning hit would bankrupt me within a month.
The centaurs kept on coming, which in turn lured in the more curious races, including the faery. I’d never understand why they came to a shop dedicated to selling pixie dust. The bright-colored blighters wanted one thing in life: liquid sugar, and lots of it. We kept it by the gallons in the fridge, and by the time my shift was over, I would need to make more. We even stocked pure sugar cane for the really adventurous, but we made them sign a waiver and an agreement to pay for any damages.
On the heels of the traditional faery, all of whom had butterfly, moth, or dragonfly wings, the bat-winged folk fluttered in. I doubted they called themselves faery, but with hundreds of different ‘What the hell is that thing?!’ critters living in the city, could anyone really blame me for forgetting their proper names?
After the faery stampeded their way in, taking up every bit of available table space, the cops showed up in search of a little Monday morning cheer. Most of them were frequent flyers from every station in a five mile radius, and it really wouldn’t have surprised me if they came because they idolized Chief Quinn.
At least the faery were easy to serve; one had the bright idea of bringing her credit card—which was bigger than she was—and paying for them all, asking for a pitcher and thimbles. I had no idea how the card disappeared into the faery’s black tank top, but I wisely didn’t ask. I got out the liquid brown sugar and poured it into a cup, dug out enough thimbles to stock a sewing store, and left them to their binge.
When I could serve at least fifty in less than two minutes, I considered it a good day. Unfortunately, at least fifty more people waited for service. On a good day, a line of ten inspired rage and pissed the customers off.
None of the cops, straggler centaurs, or other beasties peeped a single complaint. If I wanted to survive the shift, I’d need to take the methodical, perfectionist approach. As long as I didn’t screw up an order, I might survive until Mary showed up. Once she arrived, we could tag team the crowd. She’d take the orders, I’d fill them, and everything would be okay.
I lasted the full hour, but Mary didn’t show up. Instead, the first wave of businessmen stormed through the door, and some of them were even human.
Crap.
Humans were the worst. Delays infuriated them, and I still hadn’t managed to get rid of all the cops yet. Too busy to cry, I kept on smiling, faking the good-natured spirit Mary insisted made her coffee and pixie dust taste better.
“I thought this place hired faery.” The business man glared down his nose at me, his perfect black suit and white shirt tempting me to chuck the fresh pot of coffee all over him. “Isn’t your shop called Faery Fortunes? I came here to see the faeries!”
I pointed at the nearest writhing mass of sparkling winged bodies. During the throes of their sugar high, some of them had spread dust and glitter, and I tried not to think of all the health code violations they were committing on the table. When my shift ended, I’d leave that train wreck for my boss to clean up; it’d serve her right for abandoning me. “What can I get for you, sir?”
The businessman stared at the faery, narrowed his eyes, and turned his attention back to me. “You have pixie dust here?”
“We stock C and better, sir. Our regular brews use B, but we have all other grades available.” I prayed he wouldn’t ask for the two better grades. The last thing I needed was the paperwork and having to confirm his permit.
“Espresso, A+, heavy on the dust.”
I bet the human would take flight before he made it out the door. I rang his order up and struggled to hide my shock at the amount. I smiled. I smiled so much it hurt. “That’ll be three hundred and ten dollars, sir.”
“Credit,” he barked, slapping his card on the counter.
I ran his card, handed him the payment terminal, and went to make his coffee. Anyone else who worked in the store had to wear a mask and gloves when handling the vials containing the most potent of the pixie dusts, and I was the only employee certified to handle the best of the best.
Not even my boss could.
Sometimes, immunity was as much of a curse as it was a blessing. Why couldn’t I drink my cares away like everyone else? Even the time Mary had shattered an entire vial of A++ dust, I hadn’t felt a damned thing while she and the rest of my co-workers spent the following six hours giggling over everything, unable to handle even the simplest of tasks without dissolving into a laughing fit.
I checked to confirm the transaction had been approved before measuring out the dust and adding it to his coffee. I offered it to him, my smile still fixed in place. “Have a great day, sir.”
“I better, seeing how much this garbage cost.”
I already missed the centaurs and the cops. A glance at the clock informed me I had survived through three hours with no sign of Mary. When she got back, we’d have words, and unless she had a damned good reason for abandoning me so she could take a ride with Chief Quinn on the worst Monday morning shift I’d
ever seen, I knew exactly which two words I’d say.
My shift should have lasted six hours. The chaos ebbed to a trickle, but when the pixie sisters should have arrived, the shop remained quiet, the lull before the lunchtime storm. I considered killing the pair, who provided most of the shop’s dust and worked the midday hours. No one would miss Evita and Lea Anne in a city full of bubbly pink pixies, right?
The door bells tinkled, and instead of the tardy duo, I got Chief Quinn’s former brother-in-law. If I closed the shop really quickly and ran for the hills, would he go away? Before I could escape, Magnus McGee stepped to the counter.
Well, crap. At the rate I was going, my face was going to freeze into a permanent smile. “What can I get for you, sir?”
“Large coffee, black, no dust.”
I loved simple orders. It made maintaining a pleasant demeanor in the face of a living nightmare so much easier. I fetched his drink, and he slid a twenty across the counter. I glared at the bill and snatched it up. Why couldn’t people carry smaller bills instead of decimating the register’s change?
Better yet, I’d really appreciate it if they started using their debit and credit cards. Plastic made things nicer for everyone, especially me. I offered his change by setting it in front of him so I wouldn’t have to touch him. “Have a nice day, sir.”
McGee took his money, crammed a five into my tip jar, and stared at me. Instead of leaving like a good little customer, his eyes tracked my every move, and I contemplated turning a toothpick into a lethal weapon.
