Wild Thing

by J. Kenner

  “Oh, sure, rub it in,” I said.

  She laughed. “You’ve got your own Cary Grant”

  “And he’ll be home soon. I’d better run.”

  She clicked off after making me promise to call if I needed anything. But for once, I actually had it under control. Amazing. I tucked the dust mop in the utility closet, then headed back to take a final look at the living room. Comfortable and presentable. Some might even say it had a casual elegance. The dancing dinosaur on the television screen really didn’t add to the ambience, but I’d close up the entertainment center as soon as Timmy went to bed.

  I was running through my mental checklist as I headed back into the kitchen. A flash of movement outside the kitchen window caught my attention, and I realized I’d forgotten to feed Kabit, our cat.

  I considered waiting until after the party, decided that wasn’t fair, then crossed to the breakfast area where we keep the cat food bowl on a little mat next to the table. I’d just bent to pick up the water dish when the sound of shattering glass filled the room.

  I was upright almost instantly, but that wasn’t good enough. The old man from Wal-Mart bounded through the wrecked window, surprisingly agile for an octogenarian, and launched himself at me. We tumbled to the ground, rolling across the floor and into the actual kitchen, until we finally came to a stop by the stove. He was on top of me, his bony hands pinning down my wrists, and his face over mine. His breath reeked of rancid meat and cooked cauliflower, and I made a vow to never, ever ignore my instincts again.

  “Time to die, Hunter,” he said, his voice low and breathy and not the least bit old-sounding.

  A little riffle of panic shot through my chest. He shouldn’t know I used to be a Hunter. I was retired. New last name. New hometown. This was bad. And his words concerned me a heck of a lot more than the kill-fever I saw in his eyes.

  I didn’t have time to worry about it, though, because the guy was shifting his hands from my wrists to my neck, and I had absolutely no intention of getting caught in a death grip.

  As he shifted his weight, I pulled to the side, managing to free up my leg. I brought it up, catching his groin with my knee. He howled, but didn’t let go. That’s the trouble with demons; kneeing them in the balls just doesn’t have the effect it should. Which meant I was still under him, smelling his foul breath, and frustrated as hell because I didn’t need this shit. I had a dinner to fix.

  From the living room, I heard Timmy yelling, “Momma! Momma! Big noise! Big noise!” and I knew he was abandoning the video to come find out where the big noise came from.

  I couldn’t remember if I’d closed the baby gate, and there was no way my two-year-old was going to see his mom fighting a demon. I might be out of practice, but right then, I was motivated. “I’ll be right there!” I yelled, then pulled on every resource in my body and flipped over, managing to hop on Pops. I scraped at his face, aiming for his eyes, but only scratched his skin.

  He let out a wail that sounded as if it came straight from the depths of hell, and lurched toward me. I sprang back and up, surprised and at the same time thrilled that I was in better shape than I realized. I made a mental note to go to the gym more often even as I kicked out and caught him in the chin. My thigh screamed in pain, and I knew I’d pay for this in the morning.

  Another screech from the demon, this time harmonized by Timmy’s cries and the rattle of the baby gate that was, thank God, locked. Pops rushed me, and I howled as he slammed me back against the granite countertops. One hand was tight around my throat, and I struggled to breathe, lashing out to absolutely no effect.

  The demon laughed, his eyes filled with so much pleasure that it pissed me off even more. “Useless bitch,” he said, his foul breath on my face. “You may as well die, Hunter. You surely will when my master’s army rises to claim victory in his name.”

  That didn’t sound good, but I couldn’t think about it right then. The lack of oxygen was getting to me. I was confused, my head swimming, everything starting to fade to a blackish purple. But then Timmy’s howls dissolved into whimpers. A renewed burst of anger and fear gave me strength. My hand groped along the counter until I found a wineglass. My fingers closed around it, and I slammed it down, managing to break off the base.

  The room was starting to swim, and I needed to breathe desperately. I had one chance, and one chance only. With all the strength I could muster I slammed the stem of the wineglass toward his face, then sagged in relief when I felt it hit home, slipping through the soft tissue of his eyeball with very little resistance.

  I heard a whoosh and saw the familiar shimmer as the demon was sucked out of the old man, and then the body collapsed to my floor. I sagged against my counter, drawing gallons of air into my lungs. As soon as I felt steady again, I focused on the corpse on my newly cleaned floor and sighed. Unlike in the movies, demons don’t dissolve in a puff of smoke or ash, and right as I was staring down at the body, wondering how the heck I was going to get rid of it before the party, I heard the familiar squeak of the patio door, and then Allie’s frantic voice in the living room. “Mom! Mom!”

  Timmy’s yelps joined my daughter’s, and I closed my eyes and prayed for strength.

  “Don’t come in here, sweetie. I broke some glass and it’s all over the floor.” As I talked, I hoisted my dead foe by the underarms and dragged him to the pantry. I slid him inside and slammed the door.

  “What?” Allie said, appearing around the corner with Timmy in her arms.

  I counted to five and decided this wasn’t the time to lecture my daughter about listening or following directions. “I said don’t come in here.” I moved quickly toward her, blocking her path. “There’s glass all over the place.”

  “Jeez, Mom.” Her eyes were wide as she took in the mess that was now my kitchen. “Guess you can’t give me any more grief about my room, huh?”

  I rolled my eyes.

  She glanced at the big picture window behind our breakfast table. The one that no longer had glass. “What happened?”

  “Softball,” I said. “Just crashed right through.”

  “Wow. I guess Brian finally hit a homer, huh?”

  “Looks that way.” Nine-year-old Brian lived next door and played softball in his backyard constantly. I felt a little guilty blaming the mess on him, but I’d deal with that later.

  “I’ll get the broom.”

  She plunked Timmy onto his booster seat, then headed for the pantry. I caught her arm. “I’ll take care of it, sweetie.”

  “But you’ve got the party!”

  “Exactly. And that’s why I need to be able to focus.” That really made no sense, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Listen, just put Timmy to bed for me, then head on back to Mindy’s. Really. I’ll be fine.”

  She looked unsure. “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely. It’s all under control. Why’d you come back, anyway?”

  “I forgot my new CD.”

  I should have guessed. I picked Timmy back up (who, thankfully, was quiet now and watching the whole scene with interest). “Put the munchkin down and you’ll be doing me a huge favor.”

  She frowned, but didn’t argue as she took Timmy from me.

  “Night, sweetie,” I said, then gave both her and Timmy a kiss.

  She still looked dubious, but she readjusted her grip on Timmy and headed toward the stairs. I let out a little sigh of relief and glanced at the clock. I had exactly forty-three minutes to clean up the mess in my kitchen, dispose of a dead demon, and pull together a dinner party. After that, I could turn my attention to figuring out what a demon was doing in San Diablo. And, more important, why he had attacked me.

  But first, the rigatoni.

  Did I have my priorities straight, or what?

  Click here to download The Trouble With Demons, a Demon Hunting Soccer Mom anthology containing all five novels! Currently in Kindle Unlimited!

  Excerpt from Tainted

  Blood Lily Chronicles, Book 1

 
; Can I just say that dying sucks? All that bullshit about seeing the light and having this final moment of inner peace, blah, blah, blah. It's crap.

  Dying is messy and terrifying and it hurts like hell.

  I ought to know. After all, I was the one on that basement floor in a puddle of my own blood and bile. And there was no peace, no light, no anything. Nothing except the ice-cold knowledge that the sins I'd racked up in the last twelve or so hours were more than sufficient to push me through the gates of hell.

  Forget everything else I'd done in my twenty-six years on this earth, good and bad. You go out planning to kill a man—even a man as vile as Lucas Johnson—and your fate is pretty much sealed.

  From a practical standpoint, the moment of death is a little bit late to start getting all profound and reflective. As they say, what's done is done. But that doesn't matter, because even if you're the least introspective person on the planet, you still go through the whole Psych 101 rigmarole. You tell yourself that maybe you should have said your bedtime prayers once in a while. You wonder if all those torture-porn horror movies you watched while your boyfriend copped a feel weren't actually a sneak peek into what hell had to offer.

  In other words, you get scared.

  When you're living, you might tell God to take a flying leap for putting your mother six feet under when you were only fourteen. For leaving you with a stepfather who decided to cuddle up with Jack Daniel's because he no longer had a loving wife in his bed. For leaving you in charge of a pigtailed little half sister who thought you hung the moon.

  And for making you arrogant enough to swear that you'd protect that precious kid no matter what, even though that wasn't a promise you could keep. Not when there are monsters like Lucas Johnson trolling the earth. Monsters who suck the life from little girls.

  For all those reasons, you might turn your back on God, and think you're oh-so-righteous for doing it. But you'd be wrong.

  Trust me. I know.

  I know, because even as my life faded, the fires of hell nipped at my toes.

  In the end, I got lucky. But then again, luck is all a matter of perspective, isn’t it?

  Check out JK’s dark urban fantasy romance series, The Blood Lily Chronicles. Grab book one, Tainted, now!

  Excerpt from Bitch Slap

  The first time I met her I wanted to slap her.

  The second time, I wanted to fuck her.

  As for the third time, a gentleman doesn’t tell.

  So I guess it’s a good thing I’m no gentleman … right?

  I don’t believe in relationships, but I do believe in fucking.

  Why, you ask? Hell, I could write a book. The Guy’s Guide to Financial, Emotional, and Business Success. But honestly, why bother with a book when the thesis boils down to just four words: Don’t Date. Just Fuck.

  Hear me out.

  Relationships take time, and when you’re trying to build a business, you need to pour every spare hour into the work. Trust me on this. In the months since my buddies and I launched Blackwell-Lyon Security, we’ve been busting ass twenty-four/seven. Working assignments, taking meetings, building a rock solid client base.

  And our commitment’s paying off. I promise you our roster wouldn’t be half as full as it is now if I was spending chunks of prime working time answering texts from an insecure girlfriend who was wondering why I wasn’t sexting every ten minutes. So skip the dating and watch your business flourish.

  Plus, hook-ups don’t expect gifts or flowers. Drinks or dinner, maybe, but a guy’s gotta eat anyway, right? There may be no such thing as a free lunch, but you can come close to a free fuck.

  But it’s the emotional upside that’s the kicker for me. No walking on eggshells because she’s in a bitchy mood. No feeling trapped when she demands to know why poker night was more appealing than watching the latest tearjerker starring some tanned metrosexual sporting a man bun. No wondering if she’s banging another guy when she’s not answering her texts.

  And definitely no falling into a deep, dark pit of gloom when she breaks your engagement two weeks before the wedding because she’s not sure she loves you after all.

  And no, I’m not bitter. Not anymore.

  But I am practical.

  The truth is, I like women. The way they laugh. The way they feel. The way they smell.

  I get off on making a woman feel good. On making her shatter in my arms and then beg for more.

  Like them, yes. But I don’t trust them. And I’m not getting fucked over again.

  Not like that, anyway.

  So there you go. Q.E.D.

  I don’t do relationships. I do hook-ups. I make it my mission to give every woman who shares my bed the ride of her life.

  But it’s a one-way street, and I don’t go back.

  That’s just the way I roll. I walked away from relationships a long time ago.

  So as I pull up in front of Thyme, the trendy new restaurant in Austin’s upscale Tarrytown neighborhood, and hand the valet my keys, all I’m expecting is business as usual. Some causal flirting. A few appetizers. A solid buzz from a little too much liquor. And then a quick jaunt back to my downtown condo for some mid-week action.

  What I get instead, is her.

  Grab your copy of Bitch Slap now!

  Excerpt from Wicked Grind

  a standalone novel set in the exciting world of Stark International!

  He was surrounded by naked women, and he was bored out of his mind.

  Wyatt Royce forced himself not to frown as he lowered his camera and took a step back, his critical eye raking over the four women who stood in front of him in absolutely nothing but their birthday suits.

  Gorgeous women. Confident women. With luscious curves, smooth skin, bright eyes, and the kind of strong, supple muscles that left no doubt that each and every one of them could wrap their legs around a man and hold him tight.

  In other words, each one had an erotic allure. A glow. A certain je ne sais quoi that turned heads and left men hard.

  None of them, however, had it.

  “Wyatt? You ready, man?”

  Jon Paul’s voice pulled Wyatt from his frustrated thoughts, and he nodded at his lighting director. “Sorry. Just thinking.”

  JP turned his back to the girls before flashing a wolfish grin and lowering his voice. “I’ll bet you were.”

  Wyatt chuckled. “Down, boy.” Wyatt had hired the twenty-three year old UCLA photography grad student as a jack-of-all-trades six months ago. But when JP had proved himself to be not only an excellent photographer, but a prodigy with lighting, the relationship had morphed from boss/assistant to mentor/protégé before finally holding steady at friend/colleague.

  JP was damn good at his job, and Wyatt had come to rely on him. But JP’s background was in architectural photography. And the fact that the female models he faced every day were not only gorgeous, but often flat-out, one-hundred percent, provocatively nude, continued to be both a fascination to JP and, Wyatt suspected, the cause of a daily cold shower. Or three.

  Not that Wyatt could criticize. After all, he was the one who’d manufactured the sensual, erotic world in which both he and JP spent their days. For months, he’d lost himself daily inside this studio, locked in with a series of stunning women, their skin warm beneath his fingers as he gently positioned them for the camera. Women eager to please. To move however he directed. To contort their bodies in enticing, provocative poses that were often unnatural and uncomfortable, and for no other reason than that he told them to.

  As long as they were in front of his camera, Wyatt owned those women, fully and completely. And he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that in many ways the photo shoots were as erotically charged as the ultimate photographs.

  So, yeah, he understood the allure, but he’d damn sure never succumbed to it. Not even when so many of his models had made it crystal clear that they were eager to move from his studio to his bedroom.

  There was just too much riding on this projec
t.

  Too much? Hell, everything was riding on his upcoming show. His career. His life. His reputation. Not to mention his personal savings.

  Eighteen months ago he’d set out to make a splash in the world of art and photography, and in just twenty-seven days, he’d find out if he’d succeeded.

  What he hoped was that success would slam against him like a cannonball hitting water. So hard and fast that everybody in the vicinity ended up drenched, with him squarely at the center, the unabashed cause of all the commotion.

  What he feared was that the show would be nothing more than a ripple, as if he’d done little more than stick his big toe into the deep end of the pool.

  Behind him, JP coughed, the harsh sound pulling Wyatt from his thoughts. He glanced up, saw that each of the four women were staring at him with hope in their eyes, and felt like the ultimate heel.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, ladies. Just trying to decide how I want you.” He spoke without any innuendo, but the petite brunette giggled anyway, then immediately pressed her lips together and dipped her gaze to the floor. Wyatt pretended not to notice. “JP, go grab my Leica from my office. I’m thinking I want some black and white shots.”

  He wasn’t thinking that at all, not really. He was just buying time. Talking out of his ass while he decided what—if anything—to do with the girls.

  As he spoke, he moved toward the women, trying to figure out why the hell he was so damned uninterested in all of them. Were they really that inadequate? So unsuited for the role he needed to fill?

  Slowly, he walked around them, studying their curves, their angles, the soft glow of their skin under the muted lighting. This one had a haughty, aquiline nose. That one a wide, sensual mouth. Another had the kind of bedroom eyes that promised to fulfill any man’s fantasies. The fourth, a kind of wide-eyed innocence that practically begged to be tarnished.