by Jadyn Chase
Luka’s Secret
Smokey Mountain Dragons
Jadyn Chase
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Copyright © 2019 by Jadyn Chase
In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved.
Respective authors own all copyrights not held by the publisher.
Contents
1. Louise
2. Luka
3. Louise
4. Luka
5. Louise
6. Luka
7. Louise
8. Luka
9. Louise
10. Luka
11. Louise
12. Luka
13. Louise
14. Louise
15. Epilogue
More from Jadyn
Preview - Wyatt’s Secret
1
Louise
I kicked my Mini Cooper into Park in front of the grocery store and shuddered when I looked around the minuscule town of Norton, Georgia. Sweet Jesus, did towns like this still exist in this country?
A cloud of dust obscured the sagging buildings. A few ghostly apparitions moved beyond my peripheral vision, but I couldn’t get a decent view of any of them. I swallowed and tasted the dust in my throat. Ugh! No, thank you.
Who in their right mind would live in a town like this? It must be populated by drug rats and charity cases. If any bright spark grew up in a place like this, it would wear them down into a drug rat or a charity case before they could grow pubic hair.
I made up my mind then and there to finish my story and get out. I couldn’t let the place sink its hooks into me. Already I sensed my ambition and energy draining out through the soles of my shoes.
I swung the car door open and climbed out. Thank the stars I wore jeans and sneakers to this burg instead of something nice. Dust clung to everything the instant I emerged from the protective bubble of my car. Note to self: dust off your clothes before you get back into the driver’s seat.
Even then, I caught a glimpse of a film of brown settling over my upholstery. I couldn’t get away from the stuff. It even entered nostrils when I breathed. That must be how it poisoned the townsfolk into becoming these zombie wraiths that shimmered into view and disappeared just as fast.
I flung the door shut and hooked my handbag over my shoulder. The sooner I got this over with, the better. Then I could scoot on back to Savannah and take refuge among civilized people.
I cast another rueful inspection around the town. All of a sudden, I needed a cold drink—not to say a stiff drink. I didn’t like the grocery store’s appearance. The only other establishment that offered a beacon of hope was a run-down tavern down the block. The Watering Hole, the sign read. Whatever works.
I made tracks for it and blew through the door with the ubiquitous cloud of dust accompanying me. Four men occupied the place. A grey-haired man with long wisps combed over his bald pate wiped down the bar with loving care. That must be the publican.
A shabby, rag-festooned personage lay face down on one of the tables. Long, matted, greasy dreadlocks draped his folded arm so I couldn’t see his face. A large, dark-haired man with an overlapping abdomen sat upright in the chair opposite him. He eyed me over his beer mug with sharp, wary black eyes.
The only other occupant stood in front of the bar and spoke to the proprietor in low tones. I couldn’t make out the words, but the instant I walked in, the bartender chuckled under his breath and shook his head at something the man said.
I prepared myself for the inevitable encounter. A woman alone couldn’t expect anything less in a backwater like this. I strode up to the bar, set my handbag on it, and slid into the nearest stool.
The bartender came over and nodded to me. “What can I get you, Ma’am?”
I had to turn my head to look at the taps. When I did, I almost looked straight at the man standing there, but I avoided making eye contact with him. I had to choose my time and place to establish interaction with the locals.
The taps read, Budweiser, Corona, and Schlitz. “Is this all you have?” I asked. “You don’t carry Jailhouse, do you?”
Without answering, the bartender reached under the bar and brought out a brown bottle and a tall, curved glass. He popped the bottle top and set both in front of me before he went back to what he was doing. The two men didn’t go back to talking, though.
A heavy silence descended over the bar. I poured the beer into the glass, and the head made an abnormally loud fizzing noise in the stillness. Eyes bored into me from the back and the side. The bartender didn’t look at me again, but I still sensed his attention on me when he wasn’t looking.
I took a sip, and the grateful liquid burned an icy path down my throat. Ah, that felt a little bit more human. I indulged in another swallow before I deigned to broach the subject of my visit. “Do you know a place near here called The Ridge?”
The bartender raised his head, but his expression gave nothing away. “Sure. Everybody knows the Ridge. It’s right outside of town, but you already knew that, didn’t you? Anybody would know that who looked at a map of the area.”
He went back to sliding his rag over the bar. He wiped the same area again and again in mindless, meditative content.
“I know where it is,” I told him. “I’m wondering if you can tell me anything about the people who live there.”
He straightened up again, and this time, his eyes took on a hard, penetrating cast. “Let me guess. You’re a reporter from the big city. You’re up here hunting for a story about some strange tales you keep hearing about Smokey Ridge. Am I right?”
I blushed and lowered my eyes to my beer glass. I trailed my finger through the dripping condensation on the side. Crap. There went my cover, blown before I even opened my mouth.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and leaned his arm against the bar. “Listen, lady. You seem like a nice person and all but do yourself and everyone else in the world a favor. Go back to Atlanta or Chattanooga or wherever it is you came from and work on another story. You ain’t gonna find what you’re looking for out here. A lot of other reporters have gone up the Ridge and didn’t find anything. You won’t, either. You’ll only waste a whole lot of people’s precious time and make a whole lot of people uncomfortable. You might even get yourself in trouble poking around in someone else’s business. Now enjoy your beer and get along home where you belong.”
He turned away with hopeless finality. I probably should have taken his advice, but I didn’t get to be a reporter by burying my head in the sand. My mama always told me to keep I should keep my big mouth shut and listen more. Like this man, she told me I’d get into much less trouble once I mastered that particular social skill, but for some reason, it just never panned out.
“You might be right,” I began, “but what about all these stories we keep hearing about the stuff that goes on up there? How do you explain it?”
The bartender turned on me with a sneer. “What? Do you mean the stories about dragons and nuclear explosions going off and people disappearing and all that? You don’t really believe that, do you? You must have gone to college to get where you are now. Do you really think stuff like that could happen anywhere in these United States without the whole world finding out about it? Come on, girl. Dragons? Huh!”
; He snorted with laughter and shook his head over his rag again. I took another long pull of my drink and considered my situation. I didn’t really believe the reports, either. After all, I came up here to disprove them.
“Even so,” I ventured, “we have more than one eyewitness report. We have people giving sworn depositions that they saw men changing into dragons right here on the streets of Norton. What do you have to say about that?”
“I would have to say you better check with them, but from the people I know in this town, I would say they either imagined it or they’ve been hitting the crack pipe one too many times.”
The man standing across from him guffawed with laughter. The sound drew my attention to him, and I looked him square in the face for the first time. I didn’t remark him much when I first walked in, but I sure did now.
He stood a good six-foot-two-inches tall with a handful of brown curls on top of his head. They framed his clear green eyes set in a broad chiseled face. Unlike most guys, he didn’t slouch against the bar. He stood straight up and down on both feet. Blue jeans hugged his long, muscular legs down to tan leather work boots, and a supple leather belt surrounded his narrow waist. A black t-shirt revealed the cut of every muscle in his back and shoulders.
He returned my gaze for only an instant before he went back to sipping a glass of Coke and eating a sandwich in front of the bartender. I glanced back and forth between the two men. Their behavior suggested everything the bartender just said. No sane person would believe the stories coming out of this long-lost corner of rural Georgia.
Looking at these two impassive men told me a different story. My spider sense prickled. They knew something about these stories. They just wouldn’t tell me anything. Why should they? I was an outsider and a reporter trying to expose their secrets to the world. No one would tell me anything.
I faced the bartender. At least he would talk to me. “What can you tell me about the people who live up on the Ridge?”
The bartender cocked his head. “What can you tell me about the people who live up on the Ridge?”
My cheeks burned. He really knew how to push my buttons. He must have a doctorate degree in bartending. “Only that their family name is Kelly, and that they’re mixed up in the middle of all these stories. I wish I could find one of them to talk to. I’m sure they could give me an earful about all this.”
“I’m sure they could.” He turned his back on me and set to work polishing every single bottle of Jack Daniels and Glenfiddich on his back wall.
“Hey,” I called after him. “Maybe you can help me. I’m looking for someone knowledgeable about the local area to show me around. Do you know anyone like that? I pay by the hour, but it has to be someone who really knows the area and the locals well. What do you say? Will you hook me up?”
To my shock and astonishment, the man at my side spoke up for the first time. “I’ll show you around.”
I whipped around to stare at him. “What?”
A delicate smile played around his lips. “I said I’ll show you around. I know the area and the locals better than anyone. I’ll show you anything you want to see.”
I frowned at him. He only got more attractive the longer I stared at him, but something in his expression infuriated me. He was laughing at me. Anyone could see that. “Who are you?”
He stuck out his hand. “Luka Kelly. I live on the Ridge. You won’t find anyone better to show you around and introduce you to anyone you want to meet.”
My jaw dropped. “You’re a…..you’re a Kelly?”
“Yep.” He took another drink of his Coke. “I was born and raised on the Ridge. Who do you want to meet first?”
I shut my mouth and narrowed my eyes at him. “You’ve been standing there listen to me all this time, and you never said anything. Thanks a lot.”
He shrugged. “If you want to look around and meet the locals, the first thing you’re gonna learn is that they don’t talk to strangers—not about anything, and especially not about what you want to talk to them about. Your eyewitnesses are probably the only people around who want to talk about it. Everybody else keeps to themselves.”
“You must know something about it,” I returned. “What do you have to say about it?”
“I don’t say anything about it. You’re not here to interview me. I’m just showing you around.”
I faced my beer. I would get more information out of that. “Right.”
2
Luka
Me and my big mouth. Ask my Ma and she’ll tell you I’m the quietest of all her kids. I suppose that’s what comes of growing up with three brothers and two sisters. Someone has to fade into the background and take it all in.
I just couldn’t keep quiet though, when that reporter said she wanted someone to show her around Smokey Ridge and introduce her to the Kellys. I could see Larry the bartender working overtime not to give me away while she questioned him about the strange reports filtering down to the big city.
If she was going to go hunting for dragons in these mountains, she better have a Kelly with her to make sure she doesn’t wind up finding out something she shouldn’t. They say to keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Better she should have me minding her than someone else.
Of course, her looks had nothing to do with me offering my services. No way. What red-blooded man wouldn’t want to spend the next however many days hanging around with a tall bombshell with majestic wavy copper tresses and the most enticing curves? Show me the man who wouldn’t want to get paid by the hour to talk to that heart-shaped face with its smoldering hazel eyes and blushed cheeks?
Her jeans tapered to a point from her opulent rump to tiny ankles. The dust already discolored her crisp white sneakers. A beige leather jacket did nothing to conceal her white t-shirt stretched over her rounded chest. What I wouldn’t give to slide my hands under that jacket right now—or any other time.
Those eyes though, those eyes refused to leave me alone. They inspected and investigated. They gave the impression she already knew the answers to the questions she was asking, but how could she? How could she possibly know or believe what really went down on the Ridge?
I had to keep my head on straight. I wasn’t getting paid by the hour to admire her figure. I was getting paid to make certain she didn’t find out. Come to think of it, I wasn’t getting paid for anything yet.
I faced the bar and finished my sandwich to stop her from looking at me. If she could read my mind or whatever—which was ridiculous—I better make sure she didn’t mess with my head.
She rummaged in her handbag and took out her phone. She did something to the screen and held it out to me. “Tell me about your family. What are your parents’ names?”
I spun around to stare at her. “What do you want to know that for?”
“I’m doing a story on the Kellys. You’re the perfect source. What are your parents’ names?”
I took another bite while I considered my deteriorating position. Every passing moment convinced me I made a mistake offering to help her. “Isaac and Caroline.”
“What are your siblings’ names?” she asked.
I shook my head without turning around. “You still haven’t negotiated terms. How much do you pay?”
“How can I negotiate terms until I know you can supply me with the information I want?” she returned. “Tell me the names and relationships of everyone on the Ridge, and then I’ll decide whether I’m going to hire you.”
This was too much. I tossed the remains of my sandwich onto the plate and pushed off the bar. When I faced her this time, I erected an inner wall against her so she couldn’t read me no matter what she did. “If you think you can find someone else to show you around Smokey Ridge, be my guest.”
I threw down a ten dollar bill in front of Larry and strode past her toward the door. If that didn’t put her in her place, nothing would. Out of nowhere, she shot out a hand and grabbed my elbow. “Wait!”
I turned around and arched an eyebro
w at that hand. She dropped it in an instant and bowed her head. “Sorry.”
I hooked my thumbs in my pockets. “Look. If you want me to do this, you better start putting your money where your mouth is. I have things of my own to do, and if you want to know anything about the Kellys, you won’t find anyone better than me. So start talking. How much do you plan to pay me?”
She mumbled under her breath. “Twenty dollars an hour, plus expenses.”
“Deal,” I replied.
Those eyes snuck up to my face. The minute I looked into them, they gave me a squirrely wince of fire in my guts. “So…. will you tell me about your family?”
“Not yet. There’s a right way and a wrong way to do this. Come on.”
I spun on my heel and marched out of the Watering Hole. By the time she scrambled off her stool and paid Larry, I was already outside waiting for her. I leaned against a post and picked my teeth while I scanned the town and formulated a strategy.
She couldn’t read my mind, no matter what I thought of her eyes. I had to keep reminding myself of that. She wasn’t supernatural. She couldn’t be. She was just a reporter from…. I didn’t even know where. I didn’t even know her name.
Why couldn’t she be supernatural? If dragons lived on Smokey Ridge, why couldn’t a reporter from wherever be telepathic? It would be the perfect job for her if she was.
No! She couldn’t be. She wasn’t. Still, I couldn’t escape the creeping suspicion she knew more than she let on. Those eyes bored into my being. They read truths and uncovered secrets no reporter should ever uncover.
