by Ines Johnson
Table of Contents
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
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Ring of Gyges
The Misadventures of Loren
Ines Johnson
Copyright © 2018, Ines Johnson. All rights reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and incidents described in this publication are used fictitiously, or are entirely fictional. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, except by an authorized retailer, or with written permission of the author.
Edited by Alyssa Breck
Cover design by Desiree DeOrto Designs
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition January 2018
Contents
Front Matter
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
Two if By Sea Preview
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Also by Ines Johnson
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Chapter One
It’s a universal truth that all women pretend is a myth; most men are duds. The honest truth is, there’s only a handful of good ones out there. We all know it. The fairytale is believing we somehow, some way might be wrong.
But we’re not.
It’s not men’s fault. They all come into the world with so much potential. That’s because most men start their lives inside of and then attached to a woman. But inevitably, they all stray away from their mother’s apron strings and meet another male.
This other male winds up introducing the mama’s boy to a stream of dribble. That vitriol cleanses any common sense from the good little boy’s brain. Unfortunately, oftentimes this purge is permanent and both young men wind up turning into douches.
“What about that one?” said Percival. “She’s above a minimum level of acceptable attractiveness.”
I looked around the pub. The bar area was dimly lit. The stale smell of the tap mixed with the musky cloud of cigarettes. A splash of antiseptic hung in the air, but my boots still stuck to the floor as I tapped my toe to a Top 40’s tune. We were on the outskirts of Caerleon, away from the enchanted Tintagel castle where the magical realm of Camelot dwelled.
I sat at a table with four of the Round Table’s finest. Gawain nursed a mug of frothy beer, his eyes were shuttered half-moons as they took in the crowded bar searching for Percy’s pick. Tristan toyed with the long neck bottle of a craft beer as his Icelandic blue eyes searched out the target. Geraint, who’d drawn the short straw of designated driver, looked down, adding a dollop of cream to his coffee turning the liquid to the same shade as his skin.
Since I was an official knight now, I was included in the little excursion of guys’ night out. Or I may have simply followed them out of the castle. Whatever.
“She’s pretty but not too trendy,” Percy continued after he tossed back his fourth shot of whiskey. The brown liquid did nothing to burn out his throaty Middle Eastern accent, which made his P’s sound like B’s. “So, she’s not high maintenance. But enough fashion sense to show she cares about her appearance.”
I took a healthy gulp of my rum so that my mouth was occupied. Not that anyone was asking my opinion. I took another look at the damsel these knights were about to sweep off her feet.
The woman sat alone at the end of the bar, twiddling a lock of her hair. The chair next to her was empty. She didn’t have a book or a phone out, meaning she was open for approach. I could tell a lot of male eyes were on her, assessing. Likely in the same manner as the men at my table. I was getting to hear what they really thought before they went out hunting for a piece of tail.
“Her toenails are done, so good hygiene. She’s wearing heels, so not a tomboy which means sex is on the table and none of that palling around, platonic friend nonsense.”
The thing was, I knew Percy wasn’t being mean. He was making a calculated, logical, detailed statement. What I’d learned about the knight in the last few weeks was that he had no filter. Like, none. He always said exactly what came into his disgusting male mind. Things most men wouldn’t say with a woman present. But I’m sure the other knights around the table were thinking it as they looked at the women in the bar.
“She’s got a good hip to waist ratio, so she can take a good sized cock. Got her hand on her hips which means she’s open for business. Nice, long hair to wrap your fist around.” Percy made a hand gesture as he talked about her hips and her hair. “And a clear complexion which means she’s healthy. Or, she’s good with a makeup kit. I’m not the best judge there. What say you, Dame Galahad? Good genes or flawless foundation?”
I blinked a couple of times, trying to process everything he’d just said. The feminist in me was stunned into silence. But the catty chick that hung around the back of my mind took the opportunity to speak up. “Oh, that’s definitely foundation. No one’s pores are naturally that clear.”
Percy nodded, filling his glass with another finger of whiskey. “That takes it back to her caring about her appearance. All in all, a good catch for the night. Maybe even the weekend. I say go for it.”
I opened my mouth to protest for my sex. But, damn it. I couldn’t think of a thing to say. Although it was douchey to bring attention to all those things, Percy was right. Even worse, women judged men the same way.
We evaluated them on how they dressed—brand name or ratty gym clothes. We looked at their hands and not just the ring finger or the distance between the index finger and thumb. We looked at the tidiness of their nails. A guy who bit his nails to nubs? Ew. A guy whose nails were longer than mine? No, thank you.
We looked at his shoe size but also the wear and tear on his soles. We looked at his body and judged his muscle to fat ratio. I dare any woman to say her lady bits got an erection at the sight of a beer belly.
“What do I say to her?” asked Tristan, who was the chivalrous warrior the battle plans were being drawn out for.
; “Don’t worry,” said Geraint. “I’ll be your wingman.”
I inwardly groaned but managed to cover my disapproval with a healthy gulp of my drink. Before douches and frat boys misappropriated the term to trick unsuspecting women into sleeping with them, wingman had an entirely different meaning. It was a combat term for the positioning of aircraft pilots. The fighter jet who flew in formation to your right or left was a support role in the air. Their role was to watch your flank and make sure you didn’t crash land on the ground. The bar was much like an airfield with women blaring their headlights in an erect and upright position. Men hovered around, trying to land their equipment without crashing.
“Let me give you some guidance,” said Geraint.
It was kind of admirable of Geraint, wanting to help his brother-at-arms on this carnal quest. Geraint was the head trainer of the squires, but all I’d ever seen him dole out was disapproval and judgment on the jousting fields. Tonight, he looked downright encouraging talking to Tristan.
“Here’s the plan,” said Geraint. “I’ll go over to the girl and talk you up.”
“A classic maneuver.” Percy raised his shot glass. “A testimonial from a friend is heftier than singing your own praises.”
“You think that’ll work?” asked Tristan.
“Definitely,” said Geraint.
“Absolutely not,” I said at the same time.
Percy gave the thumbs up.
Gawain kept his mouth shut and shook his head at his half-empty glass.
Geraint clapped Tristan on the back. The blond knight with the cherubic face took a deep breath and nodded at his brother at arms. Before they left, Geraint rolled his eyes at me. Then he turned and corralled Tristan over to a few chairs down the bar.
I turned my attention to Gawain. “So, this is what guys’ night out is like? Actually, knights’ night out.”
“We’re just unwinding from work.” Gawain picked up a greasy, battered piece of fish and then let it fall back into the basket with a soggy plop. “I told you it wouldn’t be interesting.”
Anything was more interesting than the last week at Camelot. The entire town had been involved in a neighborhood-wide cleanup mission after the invasion of druid priestesses intent on taking away every witch and wizard’s magic. Most of the damage had been done around the moat when a sea creature rose from the waters. With its tentacles, it captured the two Queen B druidesses and took them down into the deep. Finally, everything was back in order, and we had a rare night off to kick back and relax.
Unfortunately, down at the end of the bar, I saw a plane wreck about to happen as Geraint flew off course.
“Young Tristan here graduated at the top of my class,” Geraint was saying.
“So,” drawled the woman, her body curved away from the blond knight and towards the dark knight, “you’re a professor?”
Geraint’s eyebrows rose with carnal interest. Then immediately lowered as he caught sight of his expectant brother. “No,” he corrected. “I mean, I was his instructor. Just not at a university. See Tristan here—”
“What do you teach?” the woman asked, running her forefinger over her lip as she smiled up at Geraint.
Geraint’s pupils tracked the motion. A bright fire ignited in his dark eyes. “Uh, battle tactics.”
The knight’s chest puffed up at the appreciation in the woman’s gaze. But then he shook himself and turned back to Tristan. He placed a hand on the young man’s arm as though presenting him like a prize.
“Tristan here, is an excellent marksman.”
“Really,” said the woman, gaze zeroed in on Geraint. “You are such a good friend. Can I buy you a drink?”
Geraint’s pointy brows rose. His hand left Tristan’s shoulder, and he turned to face the woman, shutting Tristan out. But Tristan was already trudging back to our table.
“I told you it wouldn’t work,” I said when Tristan slumped down in his seat.
“That’s because he singled one out,” said Percy. “You have to approach women in packs, and then cull one off from the herd. It’s what I like to call—”
“Percy,” warned Gawain.
But Percy ignored his fellow knight and plowed on. “—the hottie versus ugo maneuver.”
Gawain winced.
I was only mildly offended. I’d heard worse inside fraternity houses when I was in college. I hadn’t been enrolled at any of the universities I frequented. I just attended every now and then for the co-ed experience.
I’d been around my fair share of douches and hipsters on campuses. No, I saw no difference between the two brand of men. Both herds could be heard saying stupid things like, ‘That’s what she said,’ or typing in ALL CAPS, or they were so tragically hip, that they were into each new fad before it was popular. You know the type. The ones that ‘liked’ all their own social media posts? Yeah, that guy.
“Take those two for example.” Percy pointed to two women sitting at a nearby table. “Notice the hot one and her ug—” He eyed me. “I mean, her less attractive friend.”
“They both look quite lovely to me,” said Tristan.
“That’s because you’re young. The blonde is definitely prettier. I’ll occupy the ugo, and you can swoop in and gain the attention of the hot one.”
As entertained as I was at the inner workings of the male mind, I felt I should speak up. Tristan was still young enough to be saved from the unhygienic cleansing of douchery. But Percy was already pulling him up and out of the chair.
I didn’t blame Tristan for trying. I knew that sex was the cure for a lot of ailments; depression, obesity, hangovers, heart disease, tooth decay, the common cold, writer’s block. I knew firsthand the best use of sexual encounters was for getting over an ex-lover by climbing on top of the next one.
After my last relationship ended, I was aiming to find a new male mattress to bounce up and down on. I eyed Gawain, but I knew better. He’d already sat me down and strapped me securely into the friend zone. It had taken a few days, but we’d slipped into platonic mode. Still, I got tripped up every now and then when I looked at his high cheekbones and that strong chin. The angle of his chin was sharp enough to leave thigh burn.
“He’s going to crash and burn,” I said to Gawain.
“Yeah,” Gawain grinned.
“You don’t think we should intervene?”
“Why are you trying to stop the night’s entertainment?”
“Why aren’t you out there to get a warm pair of breasts for the night for yourself?” I asked him.
“Not in the mood.”
Good to know I wasn’t the only woman Gawain denied. He’d backed off all women. He’d told me that he had a date with death. Some while ago, Wain had faced off against a mysterious foe who he affectionately called Death. All Wain would say was that the fight wasn’t finished, and he’d either emerge victorious, or dead, at the appropriately appointed time, which I supposed meant that his womanizing days were over. I wasn’t sure if it was because he was trying to repent. I honestly still wasn’t sure if I believed him about this future morbid date.
At the other table, Percy had snagged the ugo’s attention. But the hottie was fixated on him as well. Both women aimed their headlights in the direction of his cockpit hoping to be invited into the captain’s quarters. A moment later, Tristan came trudging back to our table.
“It didn’t work,” Tristan said.
“I told you,” I said.
“You’re a woman,” he said. “How do I pick up girls?”
I opened my mouth, but Gawain stepped in. “She’ll tell you you need to be vulnerable. That girls will look past your looks and see your manners.”
I shook my head. “No, that’s not something I’d ever say. You need to show confidence. Take charge of the situation. Women want Superman and his balls of steel, not Clark Kent and his four eyes. Show your bravado. Pound your chest.”
“Really?” said Gawain.
“That can’t be right,” said Tristan.
&
nbsp; “Excuse me? Who is the one at the table with breasts?” I said. “They come home with me every night, you know. I know what I’m talking about. See that girl?”
I pointed to an unassuming, age-appropriate, modestly dressed girl sitting alone at a table. She was looking off at the dance floor at a group that was dancing. She was probably out for a girls’ night and her friend had ditched her when she got asked to dance.
“Go over there, and swagger when you walk. Lock eyes with her from a distance. But first, unbutton the top two buttons of your shirt. And here, take your hair out of that tie.”
With his shirt open and his yellow locks flowing and his blue eyes wide, he looked like a young Fabio.
“So, what do I say when I get over there?” he asked.
“Actually, you don’t need to say much. Just start with a smile and a hello. She’ll take it from there.”
Tristan got up and went over to the girl. His swagger was more of a glide. His eye lock made her fidget. But then he came into the light. That’s when her eyes widened at the fine specimen that approached her, and she uncrossed and then re-crossed her legs—the true universal sign for Come on over, baby. I’m open for business.
“I would’ve expected you to be equal opportunity,” said Gawain as he watched the show. “You know, compliment her brains and not her breasts.”
I snorted as I watched Tristan take a seat at the woman’s table. “Women are far superior to men. The only way you’ll split our thighs is if we can somehow pretend you’re smarter than us for a few hours.”
