by Gwen Perkins
Bruce took his first toke seven years ago, when he was twelve. His older brother, Daryl, was smoking a joint in his room when Bruce barged in unannounced. Daryl asked his kid brother if he wanted to take a hit. Bruce refused. That changed when Daryl called Bruce a chicken. No one called Bruce Fowler a chicken, because Bruce wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything, not even his older brother, who had a reputation for being a tough guy. He grabbed the joint from Daryl’s hand, and before Daryl had time to show him the proper way to smoke marijuana, Bruce took a long, deep hit. The impact was immediate. His throat and lungs burned, he felt slightly dizzy, and his eyes watered, but . . . there was something else happening as well. Something positive, nice, and calming. He had the strangest sensation that he was floating like an angel high above the scene below, looking down at Daryl, who was sitting on the bed laughing at the boldness of his younger brother.
It was a memorable moment in Bruce’s life; a pivotal moment, a life-altering moment. From that initial taken-on-a-dare toke, he swore to make it his life’s goal to find and smoke the best pot he could lay his hands on. It was a goal he achieved with admirable success.
Tonight, with the first drops of rain beginning to fall, Bruce and his best buddy, Carl Osteen, were standing in front of the Kentucky Theatre when Bruce noticed the big car pull up to the curb. The window on the driver’s side went down, and the man behind the wheel asked where he might score some good weed. Naturally wary, Bruce looked at Carl, shrugged, and told the man he had no clue where to buy weed, either good or bad. Of course, this was a lie—Bruce knew a dozen pot dealers in the city. He simply wasn’t about to take a chance that the guy was an undercover narc looking to make a bust.
However, despite his instinct for caution, Bruce couldn’t help but be intrigued. The guy was driving a Lincoln Continental, a pricey car for a narc. And he was dressed in an expensive suit and tie, like a business man or a lawyer. Certainly nothing like the clothes worn by any cop he knew. Most narcs dressed like street bums, hoping to make you think they were ordinary Joes out looking for a score. More often than not, it was the dumb-ass outfit that gave them away. But this guy was different. He didn’t give off a narc vibe, didn’t look like a cop. Maybe he was legit, someone who could be trusted. Bruce was torn, unsure what to do. His gut feeling that the guy was okay waged an interior battle against his fear that he might be wrong. And with so much at stake, this was not the time for an error in judgment. You never roll the dice when dealing with law enforcement.
But when the man reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a wad of bills the size of a softball, well . . . Bruce never saw a narc with that much cash. Hell, he’d never seen anybody with that much cash. Bruce was still unsure what to do until the man peeled off two one-hundred dollar bills and said he would give them to Bruce and Carl if they would direct him to the best pot dealer they knew. Seeing all that cash made Bruce’s decision an easy one to make.
Bruce and Carl climbed into the big Lincoln and informed the man that Eddie Martin sold the best pot in the city. Rarely did Bruce recommend strangers to Eddie. On a couple of occasions he had done so, but only after the stranger was vouched for by someone Bruce knew and trusted. Eddie seldom sold to anyone outside his known clientele.
To Bruce’s way of thinking, pot was harmless. Unfortunately, the idiots who make laws saw things from a different perspective. They didn’t distinguish pot from deadly heroin. Both sins were equal in their stupid eyes. Getting busted for selling pot meant jail time, and Bruce didn’t want to think about that. He wouldn’t last two hours in prison. Therefore, he had to be safe. Taking unnecessary risks was not an option.
To protect Eddie’s address, Bruce told the man to park two blocks from Eddie’s house. The man gave Bruce five hundred dollars for the purchase. Bruce was only gone fifteen minutes before returning with the pot. The man took the bag, thanked Bruce, and then asked if they would like to smoke some with him. Bruce and Carl both nodded in the affirmative.
With rain coming down harder now, the man drove out of the city and into the county. Neither Bruce nor Carl knew where the man was heading, nor did they care. They were going to smoke some seriously great shit, and it was not only free, they had each been given a hundred bucks. Pot and cash for doing nothing—sometimes dreams do come true. This weird dude in the big car could be taking them to Siberia, for all they cared.
The Lincoln stopped next to a barn seconds before the rain went from steady to serious. The man cut the engine, reached into the glove compartment and extracted a bag filled with pills. He asked the two boys if they wanted to try one of the blue ones before smoking the pot. He promised them it would intensify the experience. They declined. He then told them to go into the barn, and that he would join them in a few minutes.
Bruce and Carl were standing with their backs to the barn door when the man came inside. When they turned around, they were confused by what they saw. The man had a pistol in one hand and several pieces of rope in the other hand. Bruce felt a shudder run through his body, but he felt no real fear. This had to be some kind of a joke, right? They didn’t know this man, and they had done everything he asked them to do, so why would he have any reason to harm them? He didn’t have a reason, which is what made this so confusing. It had to be a joke, Bruce thought. Some kind of weird game. Nothing else made sense. As the man moved closer to the two boys, Carl muttered something like “what the fuck is this all about?” but his question was met by silence.
The man ordered the two boys to turn around and lie face down on the barn floor. He knelt behind Carl and tied his ankles together. Then he moved behind Bruce and performed the same procedure on him. After binding Bruce’s ankles, he told Bruce to get onto his knees and put his hands behind his back. He bound Bruce’s hands, and then did the same to Carl. When the man completed his tasks, the two boys were on their knees, hands and feet bound, facing away from the man.
Bruce was staring straight ahead when he heard the pop and saw Carl’s body tumble forward. Turning his head slightly to the right, he saw blood spurting from the back of Carl’s head. He also noticed that Carl’s eyes were open.
Only now did fear engulf Bruce. Fear and panic combined with bewilderment. He knew he was about to die, but he didn’t know why. He wanted to ask the man why this was happening. What could possibly be his reason for murdering two innocent young kids? What had they done to deserve this? Instead, Bruce chose to remain silent. He knew it was too late to ask the man anything. Anyway, what would be the point? Some questions are beyond answers.
I’ll never smoke pot again was Bruce Fowler’s last thought before the bullet entered his brain
The Heart Denied by Linda Anne Wulf
PROLOGUE
London
June 28, 1728
Bed curtains?
Thorne Neville rolled over with a groan, only to see the deep cleft in a plump bosom. Six inches closer, he might have smothered.
There were worse ways to die.
"Sleep, Mister Adams," said a drowsy voice at his ear. "'Tis barely dawn."
Mister Adams. His alias. That explained the bed curtains. "You sleep," he mumbled. "I'll be off."
"So early?"
"Aye." He sat up and feigned a yawn to make his next words sound casual. "I'm going home."
He tensed as the mattress shifted and flint struck behind him. Candlelight bathed the bed, revealing his stray clothing--which he gathered with unusual haste while Katy Devlin's stare seared his back.
"Home? You're leaving Oxford?"
Dread slowed Thorne's heart. Must she make this more difficult than it already was? He tugged on his stockings and tied the garters, jammed his arms into his shirtsleeves. "Do you not think four years at university enough?" Turning, he pinned Katy with the unnatural brilliance of his blue eyes, an intimidating maneuver he'd often used to his advantage, though never on a woman.
She didn't flinch. "Then you'll be leaving London, too, Mister Adams. And me."
It was Thor
ne who flinched, dropping his gaze. "I...I'm not 'leaving London,' nor anyone in particular." He freed his black mane from inside the shirt and smoothed the wrinkled linen into his breeches. "I merely return to my ancestral home to take up the reins where my father left off."
"And would that be, sir, the very place you've avoided like the plague, since he died? Where you've not ventured in four years, neither at Yuletide nor harvest?"
The barb pierced its target. In return, Thorne pierced Katy with a silent glare.
"Well then, be off, Mister Adams!" She rolled out of bed and flung on a wrapper, swiping a sleeve across her eyes in the same motion. "I've other gentleman callers to see today."
"Aye," Thorne muttered. "We've each our obligations, however less than noble." He fastened his waistcoat, yanking at the mother-of-pearl buttons.
"But you know mine. I know naught of yours."
So the fight wasn't over. "Nor would you care to," he said shortly, hoping to put an end to it.
"You think not?" Katy sashayed toward him, fists planted firmly on her ample hips. "Then all you know of me is that I sleep with men for my keep."
"And that it was not by your choosing," he said quickly--too quickly.
"Och, defending me against myself now, are you? And what does it matter how I got here? I am who I am, Mister Adams, and I'll be begging no pardons, even from you. Who the deuce are you this morn, by the by? Where's the man who's bedded me every se'nnight for four years? He's never judged me."
"Nor shall he." A snap of his wrist shook the folds from his neckcloth. He looped it around his throat, briefly considering hanging himself with it.
"Then look at me," Katy pleaded, tears constricting her words, "and tell me what summons you home with such haste you cannot linger another hour."
Thorne swallowed a sudden tightness in his own throat. "You ask too much of me," he said, fumbling with the long ends of his neckcloth.
"Och, sir, I've never so much as asked your true name, or whence you come. Here, let me." She brushed his hands aside and tied the linen with deft fingers. "All I know is that someone holds stewardship of your lands in your absence...has he died, that person? Is that why you must go?"
Thorne looked into her eyes--those emerald wells of compassion from which he'd drunk for four years now, believing that as long as he paid for the privilege, there would be no demand for his heart--long ago stolen and buried.
He'd been wrong. Wrong to think Katy's profession made her invulnerable. Wrong to keep calling here after he saw the signs. And wrong to confess to her that she was his first and only lover.
But he hadn't been wrong about his heart. Years ago gone with a young woman to her grave, its resurrection was out of the question.
The sun's first pale rays rippled over Katy's hair. Unable to help himself, Thorne touched an auburn lock before going on to trace the rose-petal softness of her lips. His pulse quickened as she caught his fingertip between gentle teeth.
Silently cursing fate, he hauled Katy to him, slipping her wrapper and shift off one shoulder to caress its smooth roundness. Rebelling suddenly at the passing time, as well as at other growing constraints, he slid his hand down to cup a full, firm breast. He encountered Katy's open palm instead.
He smiled into her eyes; he knew this game. "You would bargain your favors with me, Miss Devlin?"
"They are my stock in trade," she said, irony lacing her words.
Thorne's smile froze. "So they are--as you seem bloody bent upon reminding me this morning." He snagged his tricorne from the hat stand and strode toward the door. "I should have gone before sunup, at any rate."
"Mister Adams."
So grim was the note in her voice that he halted in his tracks and turned to meet her unblinking regard. Her tears were wiped dry.
"If you pass through that door, sir, without telling me who or what summons you away-" Katy took a deep, tremulous breath and squared her shoulders. "Then I shan't receive you again."
I won't be calling here again, Katy. He knew he should say it, but the words stuck in his throat.
Awash in the rosy light of dawn, she stood with her gaze unwavering, hands loosely clasped, mussed hair tumbling to her waist over the nightclothes still drooping from one shoulder. That she made no move to rearrange herself only added to her dignity.
But Thorne feared that the anguished pride in those dry, green eyes would forever haunt his dreams.
In three strides he had her by the shoulders. He pressed his lips to her pale brow, then took a deep breath and drew back to look her in the eye. He owed her at least that much.
You owe her the truth. Every rotting word of it.
"I've a promise to keep," he heard himself say in a low, taut voice. "An obligation to fulfill." He firmed his hold on her shoulders and shook his head, scarcely able to believe it himself.
"I must go home, Katy...to meet my bride."
Secret by Morinda Montgomery
Chapter One
1812
“Brian!” Great, father always has to interrupt. I wonder what… shit! Morgan!
“I’m coming!” Damn this betrothal! Glancing around the room, I snatched up my notes and wrote down the failed experiments before heading down to the dining hall, fixing my hair on the way down the steps. Why did I even bother? Mayhap if I just left my hair a mess and looked uncivilized then Morgan’s father would just call the wedding off. Best not, Father would make my life Hell if I did that; best find another way to arrange that one.
Reaching the dining hall I noticed that Morgan and her father were already seated. I allowed a smile to quirk my lips as I noticed the fumingly lovely Morgan sitting across from my seat. Suddenly the interesting blend of honey and pine that only grew stronger when she was angry hit me. I cursed my heightened sense of smell as I strode toward the table.
~~~
I’m not sure which angered me more about Brian’s entrance, the wide grin he had at the sight of my justified irritation or the slight hint of brief agitation that crossed his face as he got closer. Then there is the rest of my irritation, directed at every man in the room. His father for asking mine for this engagement, my father for accepting without so much as asking me for my opinion first, and Brian for being devastatingly handsome, arrogant, overbearing, pompous, and rude. Mostly for being handsome; no man had a right to look that good, even when he was a mess.
The well-muscled, tall, shaggy black haired Sir Brian DeMacleo was infuriating in all that he did. He treated me as if I were some sort of insolent child. The worst part was the way he smiled gentlemanly as he chided me. And now he strides over and bows!
“Good evening Lady Morgan, Sir Robert.” I watched as he turned his attention to my father, “Your daughter is as lovely in her anger as ever.” My jaw only tightened in anger as my father merely chuckled!
“Sir Brian, it is a good thing you enjoy her anger, for she seems to have no other mood as of late.”
“Why, it is entirely my fault, and I do apologize my lady. Had I been keeping track of the hour, I would have been waiting to seat you.”
That’s right, apologize, I fumed. Letting the bitterness seep into my voice, “Your tardiness is not a habit, I hope, but from the last few occasions we have met I would say it is.” I paid little attention as my father scowled at me.
“Forgive me my lady, for I have been distracted as of late.”
“Truly. May I make a request? Seeing as we are to be, wed, let us cast aside the formalities.” It wasn’t a request, even to my ears it sounded the demand it was. I couldn’t stand anymore of his polite chiding. Not to mention I should be making demands.
“Morgan, it would be my pleasure to speak to you less formally.” Brian elaborated with exaggerated glee.
“Just what are you so smug about?” The demand slipped out before I could stop myself.
“Morgan, mind your manners!” Father hissed. Brian only chuckled.
“I’m not apologizing for a question.”
“Then let m
e answer it.” Brian began, but his father cut him off.
“We should be having a delicious roast with carrots and potatoes. I have no idea what is taking so long.”
I sat back in my chair and crossed my arms. Eventually our parents would have to see what an impossible match we were. Not to mention how difficult it would be for me to slip away and fulfill my duty. What was Father thinking?! The only thing even remotely pleasing about Brian was that he appeared to be just as miserable as I.
~~~
As Sir Robert and my father began a conversation, neither Morgan nor I were interested in, the food was served with its mouthwatering smell and savory gravy; it was nearly impossible to eat like a civilized man instead of the monster I was. I cared little for anything but the overly juicy and perfectly roasted meat, but of course father eyed me disapprovingly until I ate some of the carrots and potatoes. They, also, were tender and juicy, having soaked in the broth of the meat. The simple aroma was pure ecstasy.
Looking across the table I watched as Morgan delicately nibbled at a piece of bread smothered in butter. A footman pulled me from my obsession of watching her eat when he asked if I would like a refill on my wine. I hadn’t even noticed myself drinking the tart substance. Silently nodding, I turned back to my own food.
How on earth could anyone take so long to eat? I was nearly done, and yet Morgan was still nibbling her bread! She was still fuming and yet there she sat with a full plate of food! When I get angry I hardly take time to chew before swallowing! Then again, I mused, I don’t have to chew half the time. My, primitive, side swallows everything in a few bites and with little effort in chewing.
