It wouldn’t have been a big deal if Bobby Dean Barnes had been interested in more than sex. If he’d been a nice guy rather than the proverbial bad boy. But he’d wanted sex and the big S had never been her strong suit. She’d spent her lifetime holding out for Mr. Right instead of an endless string of Mr. Right Nows and so she’d never really had a lot of practice.
She remembered the red lipstick note on her bathroom mirror and a lump formed in her throat. She’d been so hurt and humiliated that morning and, unfortunately, booked solid at work. Unable to lick her wounds, she’d gone in for a busy Friday filled with people primping for the annual spaghetti dinner later that night.
She’d been preoccupied. And one wax job later, her professional life had joined her personal one in the Totally Screwed category.
“I can’t believe I yanked off one of Diane Hardberger’s eyebrows.” The moment flashed full-color in her head, along with sound effects—the rrrrippppp of the wax strip and the horrified scream when the council woman had gotten a good look in the mirror.
“At least you weren’t doing a bikini wax.”
“You’re not making me feel any better.”
“So you slipped with the wax and then assaulted someone with several pounds of meatballs? We all have our moments.”
But not everyone had their absolute worst “moment” caught on tape courtesy of old man Wintergreen. He’d been documenting the domino tournament being held simultaneously with the dinner and had quickly traded a pair of sixes in favor of a public display of humiliation, name-calling and major ass kicking.
Bobby Dean had shown up with the newly crowned Miss Pumpkin and the truth had been obvious—he’d dumped Shay for someone younger and prettier. Someone who reeked of sex. Miss Pumpkin was twenty-one, with boobs out to there and legs up to here and an ass that could crack walnuts.
Shay, herself, wasn’t exactly over the hill at twenty-nine, but she was well on her way up. She’d started to find a few stray grays mixed in with her long blonde hair. Her once-toned body was getting soft in all the wrong places. And the biggee? She’d put on seventeen extra pounds (twenty if you counted the flip-flops and the sweats she’d had on at the last weigh-in). As for cracking walnuts…She’d be lucky to crush a fruit loop.
She dieted and she exercised. She even wrapped herself in plastic wrap once a week. But the upscale spa treatment that had always helped her shed at least five pounds right before every pageant wasn’t touching the Stubborn Seventeen.
“Your looks are all you’ve got, dear. Don’t ever forget that.”
Her mother’s voice echoed in her head. Marlene Briggs had been beautiful, herself, and she’d used that beauty to get what she’d wanted in life, from an endless string of jobs—everything from waitress to nail technician—to husbands one through four—a bull rider, a stock car racer, a professional cowboy and a stunt man. All wild, bad boy types who’d cheated on her even though she’d been Miss Skull Creek six years in a row.
She’d finally found her happily ever after with number five—an accountant named Fred.
Shay didn’t want to travel the same bumpy road as her mother, either personally or professionally. She’d gotten her cosmetician’s license and a business degree from a nearby community college. Even more, she’d made up her mind at sixteen (after seeing her mother smile and bat her eyes through divorce number three) to skip the hot, unreliable men and go straight for the accountant.
Her head knew that. If only her damned hormones would stick with her mental GPS and stop making detours.
“I’m glad Bobby dumped me,” Shay declared. “I’m through with temporary, sex-crazed men.”
“Atta girl.”
“I want a forever guy. Someone stable. Reliable. Loyal.”
“You just described my blue heeler.”
“I mean it. This is a good thing.” She gathered her resolve and focused on the one positive aspect—she hadn’t made the mistake of marrying Bobby Dean. “The best thing that ever happened to me.”
“And how. That Kissmyasscupid Web site is awarding a trip to Hawaii for first place. You should at least get honorable mention and a weekend in Vegas for being the most creative.” Sue Ann smiled at the memory. “You didn’t just morph into a major bee-yotch and flip off men the world over. You morphed and flipped and took out two hundred pounds of spaghetti at the same time.”
“He deserved it.” Shay shrugged. “And there’s no use crying over spilled spaghetti.”
“Exactly. Besides, you barely made the front page of the Gazette, and even then, you only got a tag line.”
Shay glanced at the newspaper spread open a few feet away on the front counter. Her gaze snagged on the black typeface in the bottom right-hand corner.
Shay Briggs and the deadly meatball…see Part 1.
“The fact that you would even print the story makes me question the quality of our friendship.”
“Don’t be so sensitive.” Sue Ann shrugged. “News is news. At least you didn’t get caught streaking through town in your birthday suit.” Sue Ann motioned to the headline that blazed at the top of the front page, along with a picture of a hunky male body, the tush blurred so as not to offend the delicate sensibilities of Gazette readers. “I swear, if I were Matt Keller, I’d go into permanent hiding. That or get a job as a male stripper.” She let loose a whistle. “The guy is on fire.”
“Matt Keller? The new guy?”
“Yeah, He just moved into the old Hinkle cabin outside of town. Rumor has it he used to be a sheriff up in Washington and now he’s on the run from some criminal. He’s hiding out here, keeping a low profile. At least that’s what Emmaline Sugarbaker told Marty Hanson who told the waitress over at the diner who served me my morning espresso.”
Shay’s gaze snagged on the dark black hair that flowed well past a pair of broad shoulders. “But I thought he had short hair? In fact, I know he had short hair. I saw him Friday at the Piggly Wiggly.”
Shay had been climbing out of her car while he’d been climbing into his truck. She’d seen him only a moment, but it had been long enough for all of the important points to register—new guy in town, hot guy in town, hot new guy in town.
Every alarm bell in her head had gone off because as much as she’d wanted to walk up to him and offer to show him around Skull Creek, she’d put on the brakes. Matt Keller had B-A-D written all over him, and Shay had given up the big B, along with French fries, Doritos and her beloved Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey.
She leaned closer to the picture. “When was this taken?”
“Friday night.”
“No way.”
“The date was on the film.”
“But that’s impossible.”
“Not really. Maybe he’s a cross-dresser and it’s just a wig. At least that’s what the members of the chess club are voting for.” When Shay arched an eyebrow, Sue Ann added, “The newspaper decided to milk the story and take a poll. The Ladies auxiliary is convinced he’s taking some really potent vitamins and the domino group over at the diner thinks he’s on steroids.”
“I heard it was some sort of special mineral wash that promotes hair growth,” came the deep voice from the doorway. “Talk about an infomercial waiting to happen.”
Shay turned to look at the man who’d pushed through the front glass doors. He was medium in height and a tiny bit overweight with short, spiky blonde hair. A silver earring dangled from one ear and a smile creased his tanned face.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“The name’s Luckyday. Ulysses Randolph Luckyday. I’m the new photographer over at the Gazette.”
“Ulysses took the picture of Matt Keller,” Sue Ann added.
“What happened to Mel?”
“He’s on vacation,” Sue Ann said. “He won some sort of Valentine’s trip to Palm Springs through one of those Internet travel sites and begged me to let him go. I said yes and put in for a replacement. The bigwigs at corporate office flew Ulysses down to fill in.”
Shay shook her head. “This picture can’t be for real.”
“Oh, it’s real, all right. I snapped it myself my first day in town.
Shay arched an eyebrow at the man. “You touched it up, didn’t you?”
“I never touch up my photos. Unless I’m doing tabloid work, that is. They pay big bucks for me to spray on celebrity pounds.” He wiggled his blond brows. “So how much?”
“How much for what?”
“Your super sonic hair tonic.”
“I haven’t branched out into hair treatments.” She’d never had to because her facials, body wraps and waxes had been plenty to keep her schedule full.
Until now.
“My bad. I thought you were the one responsible.” He shrugged and glanced around. “Then again, if you had a treatment like that, this place wouldn’t be so empty, would it?”
Amen.
He started to turn and Shay’s determination fired to life. She’d already lost enough of her clientele. “How about a facial?” She indicated the list of services on the wall.
“A facial?”
“The best in five counties,” Shay added.
He eyed the menu for a long moment. “I could use better pores.” He motioned to her number five special. “Go on and hook me up with one of those orange citrus cleansers. And if you manage to figure out his secret, let me know.” He indicated Matt’s pic and the hair.
It had to be a wig.
That’s what Shay told herself as she finished up Sue Ann’s facial and started on Ulysses.
She slathered an orange and mango mixture onto the photographer’s face and tried to keep her mind on the task at hand. But she couldn’t shake the mental image of Matt Keller with his hot, hunky bod and his long, vivacious hair.
Ugh.
Had she just used hunky and vivacious in the same sentence? The two just didn’t go together, which was the point in a nutshell.
Keller didn’t seem like the kind of guy who catered to his feminine side. The one and only time she’d seen him, he’d oozed macho the way Irma Klondike reeked of hairspray and cheap perfume.
He’d worn faded jeans, a plain black T-shirt and worn boots. A straw Resistol had sat low on his forehead, shielding an incredible pair of bright green eyes. Eyes that had peeled away every strip of her clothing at first glance. He’d oozed way too much raw sex appeal to even have a feminine side. That and she happened to know for a fact that he wore regulation white cotton briefs instead of a lace-trimmed thong or cheeky hipsters.
That little tidbit had come from Myrtle Kantor, who’d been in for a sea salt facial and upper lip wax the day of the eyebrow annihilation. The old woman had accidentally gotten a pair of his underwear mixed in with her girdles at the Laundromat on the previous Wednesday. Before the running naked with the vivacious hair incident, which had happened on Saturday night—the same night that old Mr. Wintergreen shot the spaghetti dinner video and Shay’s life had turned into the next Titanic.
Then again, what did she know about cross-dressers? About as much as she knew about supersonic hair growth tonics.
She finished spreading on the citrus mask, wrapped a warm towel over the photographer’s face and then turned to wash her hands. She set the timer, snagged the newspaper and eyeballed the pic.
Maybe it wasn’t a wig.
Maybe he really had stumbled on to some sort of miraculous treatment. Or maybe he was washing his hair in spring water jam-packed with a high-powered mix of minerals. Or maybe he was taking some heavy duty vitamins or steroids or something that had jump-started his hair growth and taken him from short and cropped to long and flowing in less than twelve hours.
She didn’t know for sure, but she intended to find out.
She’d be back in business with a vengeance if it turned out to be the real deal. Which meant she was paying a visit to one Matt Keller just as soon as she closed up shop.
In the meantime…
She set the paper aside, ignored the urge to dive into the pint of Cherry Garcia stashed in her portable fridge in the back, and turned to her one and only paying customer for the day.
She gave Ulysses her most persuasive smile. “How’d you like a paraffin foot wax to go with that facial?”
2
MATT KELLER HAD SEEN some freaky shit in his lifetime. Particularly at midnight during a full moon. But this was early in the evening, weeks away from the big M.
He stared down at the huge hard-on and blinked, half-expecting the sucker to whither right before his eyes. Instead, it twitched and throbbed. He shook his head.
Not that he’d never had a hard-on before, or one as sizeable as the ten solid inches staring back at him. Damn straight he’d had one. Plenty, in fact. He loved women, and they certainly loved him. They couldn’t help themselves. It was Darwin’s theory at its most basic.
As a werewolf, he was the quintessential alpha male. Strong, virile, primitive. Women sensed all three and flocked to him. It was the one and only saving grace in an otherwise cursed life.
Or it had been.
But at thirty years old, Matt had grown tired of the endless stream of women. He was sick of one-night stands. Tired of the constant variety. He wanted a real relationship.
He wanted a mate.
That’s why he’d come to Skull Creek in the first place. Because he’d met Viviana Darland while investigating a murder case up in Washington state, and he’d known in his gut that she was more than an ordinary human.
She’d been more, all right. She’d been a vampire.
He touched the two prickpoints at his neck. He still couldn’t believe it. A vampire. Talk about freaky.
Then again, he sprouted a snout and fur at that certain time of the month and so he wasn’t one to argue impossibilities.
He closed his eyes as the past few weeks closed in on him. A week ago, he’d left his position as sheriff of a small Washington town to chase Viv all the way to Texas. He’d been convinced she was The One his parents—both full blooded werewolves—had told him about when he’d turned twenty-one. He could still hear his father’s voice.
“For every male of our kind, there is a female. It’s just a matter of finding her, son. The minute you do, you’ll know it.”
“That’s right,” his mother had added. “She’ll fill your head. Your heart. And just like that, you’ll know. You’ll forget every other woman but her.”
At the time of the revelation, he’d been young and horny and more interested in having a good time than finding his one and only. But over the years, he’d started to feel the loneliness of being “different.” A few years ago, he’d finally grown tired of the nameless faces. The constant variety. The meaningless one-nighters. He’d been looking for his mate ever since.
And then he’d met Viv.
He’d known at first glance that she was different. He just hadn’t realized how different until he’d stumbled on a handful of vampires and a world of trouble. Vampire Viv, it turned out, had been fleeing two vengeful bloodsuckers, and Matt had found himself caught in the middle of their struggle. He’d been bitten by one of Viv’s attackers.
He closed his eyes, remembering the feel of fangs piercing his neck, the draw on his vein and then the nothingness as he’d collapsed onto the motel room floor.
Unconscious, but not dead.
Not even close.
He’d opened his eyes a short while later to find the struggle over. Viv and Garret—the vampire in love with her—had defeated the enemy vamps. They were both alive and well, and so was Matt. Despite passing out, he’d felt as strong as ever. Stronger, in fact. Alive. And hard.
That had been six days ago. One hundred forty-four hours, twenty-eight minutes and counting. And he was still hard.
He’d checked out of the motel and leased a two-story log cabin just outside of town. The house sat atop a large hill surrounded by sixty-three acres of trees and rolling pasture. It wasn’t anywhere close to his spread up in Washington—a five-hundred-acre mountain ranch he’d inherited from his folks when they’d died in a Cessna crash two years ago—but it would afford him enough privacy to sort things out and come to terms with what had happened to him before he resumed his search for his mate.
He glanced down at his erection. Correction—with what was now happening to him.
He threw his legs over the side of the bed and headed for the bathroom. A few minutes later, he stepped into an ice-cold shower. His skin shriveled, but the Incredible Hulk didn’t lose an inch of temper.
Ditto when he opened the refrigerator door a half hour later and let the cold air blast over his naked body. His teeth chattered. His nipples puckered. Even his toes shrank.
But his dick? Nothing. Not even a friggin’ shiver.
Desperation rolled through him and he rummaged under the sink for a large mixing bowl. Retrieving several trays from the freezer, he dumped ice cubes into the container. Mustering his courage, he shoved his throbbing cock inside. The tender skin around his penis froze on contact, his balls pulled back and he ground his teeth together.
Holymotherfriggin’sonofagoddamnbitch—
He yanked free and relief swamped him. A feeling that lasted all of two seconds. Until he glanced down to see Super Cock.
He stroked the rigid skin from root to tip and a burst of need went through him. Hunger stirred, urging him on and it was all he could do to pull away. But he did because he knew no amount of jacking off would help.
Been there. Done that.
He’d spent the past six days eating, sleeping and jacking off.
And streaking buck-naked through town.
He closed his eyes and tried to remember exactly what had happened Friday night. One minute he’d been laying in bed, fantasizing about a hot little blonde he’d spotted in town that day, and the next, he’d been buck naked, hairy and sprinting down main street. Luckily it had been midnight in a map-dot that rolled up the sidewalks at sundown.
Blazing Bedtime Stories Page 2
