by Lotta Smith
About a month ago, I was a medical student in North Carolina. I was in my third year—busy studying for exams, memorizing all the medical and surgical knowledge, and doing clinical rotations—until I got kicked out of medical school.
Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t a bad student.
So I didn’t hold high hopes of graduating at the top of my class, or someday becoming a Nobel laureate. Then again, my academic performance wasn’t that bad. I was usually at around the top 50-60 percent of the class. At a place where the majority of your classmates have an IQ of 180 and up, even being a mediocre student took lots and lots of hard work.
Anyway, the odds of my finishing medical school and becoming a doctor or getting some cushy job with some pharma/biotech/insurance company were pretty high. Back then, I used to picture myself in the future driving a nice car and vacationing in beautiful resorts.
Generally speaking, doctors are highly regarded in today’s society. Sometimes, people talked about the top-notch physicians in comparison with God. On the other hand, I was held in comparison with the Grim Reaper and the Angel of Death. And as a result, I got kicked out of medical school, saying good-bye to my life plan as a doctor.
Oh, did I mention getting kicked out of medical school didn’t offset my larger-than-life student loan?
So, there I stood, with no degree under my belt and a huge debt up to my eyeballs. To rub salt in the wound, Justin, my now ex-fiancé, had called off our engagement. We went to the same med school. He was two years my senior and was already in his first year of residency training. Obviously, he had assessed the pros and cons of staying with me and concluded that staying with a woman called the Grim Reaper wasn’t likely to boost his value as a surgeon.
As I stood in front of the East German-style building, I felt so depressed, I almost started sobbing.
Look at the bright side, Mandy… I tried to convince myself.
At least I was going to have a job, and their offer wasn’t bad. I would be able to make monthly payments on my student loan and make a decent living. Maybe I could even move out of my parents’ townhouse in a year or so.
Actually, I wasn’t eager to take this job when I received the offer, but Mom and Dad insisted I should. They were not very keen on spending the rest of their lives paying off my student loan.
“Miss, you’ve been standing here for a long time.” Frowning, the guy in a guard’s uniform gave me an accusing glare.
“Um… I’m sorry. I got a little bit distracted. I’m supposed to start working here today,” I said, but based on his deep frown, I was positive he didn’t believe me.
“Oh, I’m running late. I’ve got to go….” I attempted to walk away, but he grabbed my arm.
“What is the purpose of—?” the guard started interrogating me, but he didn’t get to finish his sentence.
“Good morning, Stanley,” a male voice boomed from behind us. It was a deep, smooth baritone—clear, calm, and confident. Without turning back to see him, I found myself picturing a tall guy with a certain level of sexiness. He continued, “For your information, you don’t want to mess with her. Guess what? So far, she’s killed three men just by touching them. In addition, it’s her first day working as my assistant. If you convince her to leave without even starting the job, Hernandez will be so pissed.”
I had a remote knowledge that the head of the FBI’s New York Office was named Hernandez.
“Mr. Rowling!” The guard’s response sounded more like a surprise than an acknowledgement.
When he straightened himself, he was no longer grabbing my arm, too busy saluting Mr. Rowling.
“I am awfully sorry for my rude behavior. I didn’t know she was your new assistant.”
Then, turning to me, he apologized profusely. “I’m awfully sorry, ma’am.”
If eyes could speak, his were saying, ‘Why didn’t you mention you worked for him?’
“Okay, so we’re all cool,” said Mr. Rowling.
I turned back to thank and greet him, but words failed me.
He was tall, athletic, and had broad shoulders. He had flawless fair skin and dark hair styled in a conservatively messy ‘do. His mesmerizing green eyes looked almost blue, and his cheekbones were prominent. His nose and jaw were sculpted to perfection.
In a nutshell, he was drop-dead gorgeous.
But that wasn’t the only reason I was at a loss for words.
“You are the—” Clenching my teeth and fists, I searched for words.
Though I didn’t remember his name, I did recognize him, in an ‘I am so going to kill him if I ever lay my eyes on him again’ way.
“Yeah, I’m Rick Rowling.” He flashed his perfect set of pearly whites. Obviously, he didn’t read my mind. “Hi, Mandy. Nice meeting you again.” He extended his right hand toward me.
I took a deep breath. I had no fucking idea why this guy was so familiar with me to call me by the nickname I’d used since kindergarten. Before today, we had met only once for just a couple of hours, and during that short period of time, he killed my future as a doctor.
I took his hand, half wishing he’d drop dead on the spot.
After all, he was the one who convinced the Chapel Hill Police Department and my medical school that I’m the Grim Reaper.
Book 2: W is for Wicked: http://amzn.to/29s5SLj
Murder investigation is tricky—especially when the deceased threatens to kill you...
FREE on Kindle Unlimited!
Former medical student turned FBI special assistant Amanda Meyer isn’t thrilled about her new gig as a ghost whisperer, especially now that she has the spirit of a departed drag queen following her around.
But having a pal on the other side may just come in handy when a billionaire’s widow meets her untimely demise and Amanda and her oh so sexy boss, Rick Rowling, head of the Paranormal Cases Division, are called in to find the killer.
With nine scandalous suspects, nine questionable motives, one dead witness and one cryptic clue, the bureau’s dynamic duo should be able to solve this case by the numbers, but the victim’s restless soul wants revenge while the clock is ticking. What’s the girl nicknamed The Grim Reaper to do? M may be for Murder, but W is for Wicked.
PROLOGUE
“There are some men who enter a woman’s life and screw it up forever.”
—Janet Evanovich, One for the Money
My name is Stephanie Plum, and for me, the man who takes pleasure in periodically screwing up my life is Joseph Morelli….
No, that’s a downright lie—I mean, I’m kidding—for the most part.
I’m not the world’s most famous, most popular, or perhaps, the richest female bounty hunter. As for Joseph Morelli, I haven’t even met him, much less got screwed by him. Um... don’t misunderstand me, I’m talking conceptually, not physically or carnally.
Okay, so I know it’s wrong to impersonate a total stranger, but excuse me, you need to cut me some slack.
My life sucks way worse than Stephanie’s. Sometimes, I’m oh-so-desperate to fool myself that I have a life somewhere, anywhere but where I’m stuck.
My name is Amanda Meyer. Most of the time, I’m called Mandy, and that’s the acceptable part—I can live with this nickname. Like Stephanie, I work in a law enforcement field, except I’m with the FBI instead of a bonds office in New Jersey. Unlike her, I’m not filthy rich. She’s described as constantly struggling for money in her books, but I know she’s rich.
Okay, so she goes on about how she’s stuck with a dead-end job forecasted as mostly cloudy with chances of raining bullets and dead bodies and exploding vehicles, how she ended up selling her electronics, and how little food she’s left at home—but that’s just her words. On second thought, it’s impossible to stay poor when you’re the star of a megahit series. She probably has her millions stashed somewhere, such as a private bank in Switzerland. In my previous life, I was anticipating a decent life for my future, if not being obscenely rich. I was going to become a doctor, but that c
areer option is now gone, baby, gone. Thanks to getting booted out of medical school with no degree and a humongous student loan, I’m deep in debt up to my eyeballs.
And, believe me, there actually are some men who pop into a woman’s life from out of nowhere—like some kind of a genie, leprechaun, or ghost—with the sole purpose of messing with it.
By the way, did I mention that I have not just one, but two men, hexing my life?
For starters, there’s Rick Rowling. He’s the head of Paranormal Cases Division at the FBI’s New York City field office. He became my boss by practically butchering my medical career before it even started. Standing at 6’2” with lean, hard muscles in all the right places, he’s hot, sexy, and comes with intense green eyes. He happens to be the only heir to the huge, multi-billion, security conglomerate USCAB—United States Cover All Bases—which means he’s ridiculously rich. Unfortunately, he also happens to be an outrageous, egotistical smartass who’d kill to generate trouble and mayhem just for the sake of his own pastime.
I’m not exaggerating. During the investigation of our first case, we were close to being eaten by a bunch of unperishable, monstrous creatures. So I’m trying my best to keep a good distance from him, but he tends to pop in to dinners with my folks at my parents’ home.
And there’s another guy, Jackie, also known as Jackson Frederick Orchard, who was a budding Broadway actor.
It all happened last November when Rowling and I were walking Pier 26 in Tribeca, where I saw something—no, someone—who should be absolutely discernible…
“Cool!” Rick Rowling grinned while walking in the same park where we met Jackie the day before.
“I know! It’s totally fab!” Jackie agreed contently.
They were acting like a couple of nine-year-old boys admiring a new toy. Except, their focus wasn’t on a new Xbox or hoverboard that actually lets you float and fly in the air. Also, technically, the two of them weren’t communicating with each other.
Jackie could see and hear Rowling, but things didn’t work out the other way around, because Rowling couldn’t see or hear Jackie, which meant he couldn’t see Jackie’s revealing, skintight outfit in neon green and hot pink, the big hair like Shakira, or the snow-white boa headdress. Not that my boss had impaired vision or hearing, though… it’s complicated. He couldn’t even see the huge necklace spelling ‘FESTIVE’ hanging from Jackie’s neck.
It was sad that Rowling missed so many colorful things in front of his eyes. Still, at the same time, he was lucky, since he didn’t see the huge laceration on the side of Jackie’s abdomen, or the little portion of intestines peekabooing from the wound. On top of all that, Jackie was acting a little bit too intimate toward Rowling—for example, raining him with kisses, trying to grope his derrière, and so on. Though Jackie’s hands always went through Rowling’s body instead of actually landing on his private areas, my boss seemed somewhat uncomfortable whenever he was touched on his butt. So, he might have been feeling something….
Anyway, I happened to be the hot topic du jour. To be more precise, my newly discovered ability to interact with Jackie was.
“You know what, Mandy? So far, you’ve totally nailed it. All the details you mentioned were accurate. You even correctly described the parts yet to be disclosed to the media, which means you’re actually communicating with Jackie. Holy crap, you’re phenomenal!” Rick Rowling announced enthusiastically. “By utilizing your new skill, our case closure rate’s guaranteed to hit a new high.”
“Well, I don’t know…,” I mumbled in uncertainty. I glanced at Jackie, who was standing by my side. “Maybe he’s the only dead person I can communicate with, or maybe—” He might be my imagination, illusion, or hallucination
“Okay, Mandy. Relax.” Rowling reached for my shoulder, but before his hand touched me, Jackie butted in between us.
“So, Mandy, are you ready to find the SOB who stabbed me to death? Now that I have shared all the juicy details about my case with you,” Jackie, who turned into a ghost after getting murdered, said expectantly.
Yeah, you heard me right. I said Jackie is a ghost. Actually, he’s not one of those common, boring ghosts, because he’s a ghost of a drag queen, and he’s urging me to help catch his killer.
“Of course, I know you’re ready to kick ass, considering you’ve got this hottie hunk FBI agent as a partner. No offence, but I’d love to team up with him without you between us as a translator, and it’d be way nicer if only I could touch him.” The ghost of a drag queen chattered nonstop. “By the way, I told you that I preferred to be referred to as she, not he. I might be a super actor who can be anybody, but I’m a girl at heart.” Jackie had the audacity to make tsk-tsk sounds and correct me.
“Um… sorry about that,” I mumbled in apology, thinking, Seriously? A girl at heart? A diva to the bone sounds way more accurate.
Meanwhile, Jackie went on. “By the way, Mandy, don’t even think about pretending you don’t see me. You can try shutting your eyes and covering your ears, but you just can’t ditch me like old undergarments infesting your closet. I have waited for three years, for Pete’s sake! If you abandon me, I’ll haunt you like the devil till you go totally cuckoo yourself.”
As he—no, she—threatened me, the gut peeking out of the wound seemed to be vibrating, as if it represented his—not his, her—anger.
Man, she sounds serious… “Oh, no, Jackie, I’ve never thought about abandoning you!” I flashed a reassuring smile, but inside I wanted to scream and run away. Deep in my mind, I was skeptical about Jackie—like if she really exists—and I wanted to state my skepticism loud and clear. But at the same time, if I was a ghost of a murder victim and someone who can hear my voice treats me like I don’t exist, I'd be devastated—as if I got murdered not just once but twice. Also, it wouldn’t be pretty if the ghost kept to her promise of haunting me like hell. Gosh, I needed a psychiatrist… or a drink strong enough to knock me down unconscious.
“Good.” She nodded.
At this time, I knew the chances of the ghost diva departing to a better place like most dead people were practically nonexistent.
“And think of the cool prospects, Mandy.” While I was being threatened by Jackie, Rowling’s hand had already gone through Jackie and was patting my shoulder. “We can interview dead politicians and high-profile bureaucrats, make them spill their guts, and put our hands on dirty little secrets of our highest-ranking personnel—such as the President of the United States.”
“E-excuse me? We? Did you just say we?” I stuttered.
“Hmm, that sounds good,” Jackie chimed in. “Grasping the VIP’s dirty secrets is always good because you can use them as leverage.”
“Yeah, it’s awesome!” Rowling beamed. “We can practically control the government by utilizing the intel obtained from dead people. Can it get any better?”
I took a deep breath and looked my boss in the eye. “Excuse me, Rick. You told me you can’t see or hear Jackie, right?”
“Yup.” His intensely deep green eyes looked straight back at me. “Why do you ask that?”
“Hey, Mandy, is there any chance he’s gay?” Jackie interjected, trying without success to pick up a lock of brown hair hanging over Rowling’s forehead. Before I answered, she continued. “No, he’s not gay. I can tell. I can just tell. Assuming he’s a straight guy, shouldn’t he be swatting me like a bug when I’m getting a little bit too intimate with him? You’re so skeptical, Mandy. He’s telling you the truth. There is no way he can see or hear me. I recommend you stop doubting. Joy and happiness will run away from you if you keep on taking a dim view of everything.”
She had a point. Considering they weren’t channeling with each other, I was stuck not only with Rick Rowling but also with Jackie the ghost, who was as outrageous as Rowling.
“Oh, I found another reason to conclude that he can’t see me.” Jackie went on. “If he’s gay or bi, he should be cooing whenever I touch him, shouldn’t he?”
Slapp
ing my forehead, I groaned.
“What’s up, Mandy?” Rowling and Jackie said in unison as if they had no clue why I looked so grim.
“Never mind,” I said, wishing it were just a weird, wicked dream and not my life, or my career….
* * *
Once being born to this world, every life is destined to die—eventually, sooner or later, and at least once. Everybody knows that, but most people do not expect people close to them to suddenly go cold, motionless, and totally uncommunicative, as in a deathly silence, especially when they had no existing serious health problems.
“Holy smoke!”
When Marcus heard those words in Willow’s high-pitched voice, he nervously twitched his impeccably trimmed and manicured eyebrows.
It was the moment he heard the telltale thud! He was almost certain that the maid had committed another faux pas—like dropping a heavy object, or falling a few steps down the grand staircase—without seeing it for himself, because he had witnessed Willow flopping more often than he wished to see.
Marcus looked at the clock. It was just a few minutes to 9:00 p.m. He couldn’t help wondering why the maid had to make another blunder just minutes before finishing her shift and leaving. He sighed, thinking that Willow wouldn’t be happy to help fix whatever mess she had created. But when her next wail came saying, “Madame… Madame! Are you all right?” he could no longer sit quietly in his waiting room.
As soon as he burst into the foyer, he demanded, “What is the matter, Willow?”
“Oh… Mr. Marcus, I’m so glad you’re here!” the maid said breathlessly, without standing.
“Are you—” Marcus started to ask, but then gasped. “Oh my goodness, Madame Giselle!”
To his horror, it was Giselle Carolynn Axtell McCambridge, the head of the McCambridge family, and his very own employer, who was helplessly lying over the bottom steps of the grand staircase. She was bleeding from her head, and the blood was oozing over the white marble step.
