Something Else: The Three Graces Book One

by Nia Farrell

  SOMETHING ELSE

  The Three Graces Book One

  by

  Nia Farrell

  SOMETHING ELSE: THE THREE GRACES BOOK ONE

  by Nia Farrell

  Copyright 2015, 2018 by Nia Farrell

  Edited by Anita Quick and Anne Bright

  Cover Design by Crystal Visions

  Stock Photography from depositphotos.com (edited)

  Formatting by Anita Quick

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used without the written consent of the author, except for brief quotes in reviews. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any other means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book. Such action is in violation of the U.S. Copyright Law.

  Unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  First Edition Released August 25, 2015

  Dark Hollows Press

  Expanded and Reissued July 1, 2018

  Length 18,646 words

  ASIN: B07D9W7NKN

  Long Branch Books

  Shattuc, Illinois

  Disclaimers

  This book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The use of any real company, organization, and/or product names is for literary effect only. All other trademarks and copyrights are the property of their respective owners.

  TITLES BY NIA FARRELL

  Something Else (The Three Graces Book One)

  Something Different (The Three Graces Book Two)

  Something More (The Three Graces Book Three)

  Dark Moons Rising

  The Three Graces Trilogy (Books 1-3)

  Something Special (The Three Graces Book Six)

  Pride and Punishment—An Erotic Retelling of Jane Austen’s Beloved Classic

  Replay Book 1: Viking Raid

  As Wicked as You Want (Forever Ours Book 1)

  Replay Book 2: Triple Play

  Replay Book 3: Honour Bound

  Replay Set 1: Viking Raid, Triple Play, Honour Bound

  Replay Book 4: Hooked

  Replay Book 5: Night Music

  Replay Book 6: Highland Fling

  Keeper—The Avenging Angels MC Introduction

  Find Her: Avenging Angels MC Book 1

  Wicked Lady

  Replay Book 7: Wing Men

  Replay Set 2: Hooked, Night Music, Highland Fling

  Keeper: Avenging Angels MC Book 2

  Rules of Engagement: A Daddy Dom Ageplay Erotic Romance

  Replay Book 8: The Dark Side

  A Wicked Christmas 1869

  Replay Reunion 1: Naughty New Year

  Replay Book 9: Gladiator

  Stitch: Crime Family Values Book 1

  Replay Set 3: Wing Men, The Dark Side, Naughty New Year, Gladiator

  Loser: Avenging Angels MC Book 3

  Replay Book 10: Patriot Games

  TITLES BY NIA FARRELL WRITING AS ERINN ELLENDER QUINN

  Touch the Wind (Touch the Wind Book 1)

  Ride the Wind (Touch the Wind Book 2)

  Reap the Wind (Touch the Wind Book 3)

  Dare the Wind (Touch the Wind Book 4)

  Touch the Wind Set 1: Touch the Wind, Ride the Wind, Reap the Wind

  Highland Desire

  TITLES BY NIA FARRELL WRITING AS REE L. DIEHL

  The She-Wolf on the Twentieth Floor (Unbillable Hours #1)

  A Package for Paige (Unbillable Hours #2)

  Dedication

  To Author T. S. McKinney, who suggested that I submit my Three Graces Series to Dark Hollows Press. My proposal led to a sale that was twenty-eight years in the making. I’ll always be grateful that they took a chance on me. This is the book that really started it all.

  ~ Nia Farrell

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Introduction

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Epilogue

  Author Bio and Links

  Previous Titles

  Introduction

  They say there are no coincidences. Everything happens for a reason. Paths cross. People find each other.

  Or rediscover each other if reincarnation is your thing.

  Three women live in the fictional small town of Posey, Minnesota. They’re all twenty-two years old, and their names mean the same thing. They call themselves the Three Graces. One is beautiful. One is creative. One is kind. Just like the Muses of ancient myth and legend.

  Grace Murphy is a psychic medium who hears dead people.

  Anna James is a starving artist who lives for her music.

  And somewhere in between, waitress Rae Simmons aka Rachel Givens hides in plain sight, delivering plate lunch specials with service and a smile.

  This is Grace’s story of how she finally meets her soul mates, and the twenty-two-year-old virgin becomes the vanilla crème center of an interracial MMF ménage BDSM romance.

  Chapter One

  It’s always different, yet one thing never changes. In my dreams, there are three of us. Two males, one female. Throughout our soul histories, in our many incarnations, we’ve been friends and foes. Clandestine lovers and sworn enemies. Paths cross, and we come together again, until death parts us once more.

  Our roles shift, and we switch genders from time to time. More often than not, I’m the female. Probably to tamp down this solar flare energy of mine that tends to burn a weaker person. I’ve softened it further by coming into this life as a Pisces. Yin water and yang fire. I’m sure that leaves fucking rainbows in my wake, a cosmic trail that should have helped them find me by now. I’ve been in this skin for twenty-two years. Long enough, I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve saved myself for nothing, if I somehow missed the boat and they sailed on without me.

  If that’s the case, well, better luck next time, I guess.

  I don’t bother to suppress my sigh of self-pity. Better to let it out than keep it bottled, where disgust with that bitch Karma and my growing impatience will only make it worse, until I either implode or explode, and neither is going to be pretty.

  Seeking distraction or confirmation, I shuffle the divination deck in my hand and lay out a spread on my scarf-draped folding table. I’m glad that I had the foresight to bring sides for my tent. Outdoor events are always iffy. I’m no weather worker, to make sure the rain stays clear and the winds keep calm. The breeze is stiff enough today, the cards would be rearranging themselves if not for my three canvas walls.

  This weekend, I’m at an Irish festival. The printed program lists one day of musical performances, dance sessions, and lectures on appropriate cultural topics. The air smells like fish and chips, lamb stew, and soda bread. The sound of uilleann pipes, guitar, and Irish whistles drifts from the main stage, stirring my Celtic blood. Not that the red hair is a giveaway. Or the fair skin or the freckles that I’ve accepted will never, ever go away. I’m walking proof of my Scots-Irish ancestry, even before my genealogist aunt got a computer and went wild on the internet. She is ru
thless, tracking family lines until the trails go cold, determined to find that elusive royal blood. She’s traditional enough, I can’t tell her how I know that being a king or queen isn’t as great as she thinks.

  If you think karma for one is bad, try carrying the weight of a fucking country on your shoulders.

  The thought coincides with a shadow that crosses the front of my tent, announcing the imminent appearance of the next near-miss, who’ll glance in my space, see my sign, and be frightened away, either by the price of a session or the fear that I’m a witch. I might be clairsentient, clairaudient, and clairvoyant, but I’m not a witch.

  At least, not this time.

  One more step and he comes into view. Well-worn blue jeans are molded to long legs, muscled thighs, and lean hips. The rolled sleeves of his plaid shirt expose copper skin that proclaims his heritage as clearly as the long black silk hair, sculpted cheekbones, and Native American flute that he carries in one large, incredibly sexy hand. Lifting my gaze from the bone and bead choker around his neck, I meet the dark chocolate of his eyes and feel the breath hitch in my chest, stolen by memories.

  The last time we were together, I killed him.

  Before I can even think what to say, what to do, he cocks a brow and angles his head. His lips curve in a smile that says it’s okay to admire his beauty. He’s obviously used to it. With that build and those looks, he knows his effect on women, but I’m not just any woman.

  I’m his. Theirs. Time and again.

  Exhaling slowly, I offer him a smile that invites approach and give him a look that hopefully invokes fonder memories than my masculine hands gripping a slender throat, squeezing the life out of the woman beneath me. He was Cherokee then, but now…?

  “What Nation?” I ask.

  His smile widens in appreciation, revealing strong, white teeth. “Lakota Sioux, Brule, Creek, Cherokee.”

  Bingo. Affirmation.

  “Ah.”

  He cradles the carved wooden flute in his arm and takes in my tent with a sweeping glance that settles on my sign. “Gifts of Grace—Psychic Medium,” he reads, politely refraining from commenting on my charges for fairgoers. “Can you do it without the cards?”

  He doesn’t wait for an answer, just folds his six feet frame into the chair opposite me and leans back, his casual body language at odds with the penetrating look in his eyes. He’s trying to figure me out. That’s good. At least he’s not scared shitless. Most men won’t come near me, as if I can magically plug into them and know their deepest, darkest, dirtiest secrets. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve been known to. But it wasn’t intentional. Wasn’t deliberate, that act of esoteric espionage. Angst fucks with your mind, and when you’re an early bloomer in junior high and a pervy science teacher wants to give you private instructions in biology, well…

  I’ve never been good at hiding who I am, what I am. In junior high, I got in my science teacher’s head, thought screw this, and came out of the psychic closet. I’ve been scaring people away ever since.

  And attracting them. Odd, how that works. It’s the fear factor. People who can move past it, who want help and are open to hearing the truth, those are the ones who’ll lay down the cash without blinking an eye. At the end of a session, when they hug me and walk away in tears, that’s when I know I’ve nailed it.

  “Sure,” I tell him. “The cards are more for the client than for me. Seeing it—seeing makes it more… acceptable. More believable.”

  He’s quiet for a moment. Watchful. Possibly reconsidering the wisdom of being here? No, that’s not it. It’s something else. Something more. He has a secret, and my guides aren’t telling me shit.

  I meet his eyes and, for a moment, let myself get lost in them.

  Anna. The name drops in my head, and suddenly I know this man—or kind of know him, at least. He’s got to be Nico, the musician Anna’s been trying to fix me up with for months. The timing was always off. It never somehow worked out, and now, miles from home, he’s here. The stars are aligned, and our paths have finally crossed.

  “Fuck me.” The words slip out before I realize it. I press my fingers to my lips, blaming Anna and blessing her when my potty mouth sparks his interest. I’ve been told I look “cute” at five feet, two inches and “wholesome” with my delicate coloring and conservative curves, but sensing the naughty girl inside me seems to turn him on just a little bit.

  “Sorry,” I say, though I’m not, not really. Not when I see the masculine appreciation in his eyes. “I have a friend. She’s got the filthiest mouth. I never swore before I met Anna.”

  He sits up and leans towards me. His mind is clicking so loudly, I can almost hear the cogs turn as everything falls into place. “Anna James?” he asks, his expression at once delighted and bemused. “Your Anna’s Grace? One of the three Graces?”

  It’s a joke between us. We’re all twenty-two years old, and each of our names means Grace. Well, mine is literally that, but Anna’s and Rae’s will turn up on a search engine for baby name female. The thing is, we’re really nothing alike. I’m the local psychic. Anna’s the local starving artist, and Rae is everyone’s favorite waitress at the local diner.

  I nod, welcoming the odd peace that settles over me when I look at him. Things are going to be better for us this time. I know it.

  Thank fuck.

  I return his smile. “Yep. Grace Murphy. Anna’s Grace. And you must be Anna’s Nico. It’s nice to finally meet you. I’d invite you to have a seat, but well…” When I sweep my hand, it feels like colors fly from my fingertips.

  He laughs, and the sound washes over me, wrapping me in joy.

  Part of me wants to pinch myself and make sure this is really happening, that it’s not some cosmic joke whose punchline ends with “too good to be true.” Our mutual friend hasn’t played matchmaker in a while. It isn’t like her to give up on something that once seemed so important to her.

  I gather my cards and reshuffle the deck. “I have to ask. Are you here on your own, or did Anna send you?”

  He cocks his head toward my sign. “You’re the psychic. You tell me.”

  I shake my head and grin, unapologetic. “It doesn’t work that way. I’m told what I need to know, not what I want to hear.”

  “Well…if you don’t know,” he asks, “then what do you think?”

  Ask and receive.

  I flip a card and show him The Lovers. Well, well. Imagine that. “I. Think. It’s. About. Fucking. Time. If it wasn’t, we wouldn’t both be here today. Together. Again…”

  I speak softly. Firmly. Giving him food for thought. I don’t know what Anna’s told him about me. I don’t know if he understands that there’s still a piece of us missing.

  He takes what he’s heard and mulls it around, tasting, digesting, touching the flute like a talisman, as if it can somehow neutralize any bad-flavored mojo lingering from past lives and offer us a clean palate.

  As if we could be that lucky.

  His eyes meet mine, challenging, revealing the warrior I’ve seen many, many other times before. “You think you remember me,” he says slowly. “Past life shit?”

  Brave man. I allow us half a smile. “Not all shit. But it hasn’t all been sweetness and light, either.” I pause, withholding full disclosure, tempering honesty with wisdom. “But I do remember you,” I say. Unequivocally. Undeniably. “I have dreams. Lucid dreams, where I’ve seen us. Again and again. Who we were. What we were. Once upon a time, anyway.”

  Remembering my last dream, I look away when my cheeks grow warm and my pussy begins to throb. Catching my lower lip between my teeth, I risk meeting his eyes and want to shout hallelujah when he admits that he thinks he’s seen me too.

  “My last sweat lodge.” He straightens in the chair and rubs his chest, connecting with memories held in his heart. “In the south. Someone with your hair was there.”

  When he reaches across the table and takes my hand, I swear, sparks fly.

  “I didn’t see her face, but you feel
the same.”

  I have to admire his control. His expression is inscrutable. Good, bad, or indifferent—I can’t read him, but the electricity arcing between us inspires hope that this is it.

  At long fucking last.

  “We’re going to need more than half an hour,” I tell him. “Can you hang around long enough for me to break down? We can grab a bite to eat. Talk over dinner. See what happens.”

  Maybe tonight will be the night. The night that I finally cash in my V-card. Unless he won’t do me, not without the other….

  Chapter Two

  Six months later, I’m still waiting. I was right, dammit. Nico won’t even finger me. He says if we start that shit, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stop. So even on those nights in the two-bedroom lakeside cabin we now share, when the rising tide of passion threatens to shove aside the camaraderie that spans millenniums and carry us away, he won’t let it.

  Really? Since when does the man say no? Not that I’m gender-bending here, but come on. He knows that I’m ripe and ready. While part of me has to admire his resolve to keep my V-card intact, another part of me wants to sneak into his room, slide into bed, and make his every wet dream come true.

  I don’t, though. Instead, I grit my teeth and nod when Nico insists that we’ve waited this long, we can wait a little longer. How much longer is the question that consumes me, every day and every fucking night, lying alone on sheets that beg to be anointed with sweat and saliva and cum.

  I’ve had half a year to get to know Nico—Nicolas White—although he’s only one-fourth that. In some perverse quirk of fate, he writes music with my friend Anna, tribal with a twist. Nico claims that my sex goddess slut of a friend is like a little sister to him. Believing meant seeing it with my own eyes, but he truly is like her brother from another mother, only better. He’s always been there for her, even when her own family cut her off after refusing to accept her life choices.