Monster match, p.13
Monster Match, page 13
He threw his hands up. “I only offered because I thought you’d want one. I love you, too! I don’t want a divorce!”
“Well, fine!”
“Fine!”
Then, with a growl of equal parts relief, frustration, and excess adrenaline, he kissed her, their lips crashing together, hard and fast. When he pulled back, they were both breathless, chests heaving.
“Aw,” Elsie said. “That was sweet. Kind of.”
Lucy rolled her eyes. “Thanks, Elsie.”
“Yeah. And don’t worry about the body. I’ll take care of it. I know a guy.”
Note to self: don’t mess with Elsie.
“There’s a few other things you should know about this…change,” Viktor said.
“There’s always a but, isn’t there?” She shook her head. “Lay it on me. What’s the deal? I’ve got a supercharged heart now, so I’m going to turn into a werewolf every full moon or something? I need to drink blood to survive and animal blood tastes like ass? What is it?”
He booped her nose—actually booped her fucking nose. “You watch too much television. No, you’re not a werewolf or a vampire. But you will be much stronger than ever. And you won’t get sick, ever. Now, don’t get me wrong. You’re not immortal. You can die. But if you take care of yourself, of this body and this new heart, you’ll live a very long time. As long as me.”
“So, let me see if I get this straight. You made me stronger, healthier, and damn near immortal. Is that about right?”
“Pretty much.”
“And you’re not going to ask for a divorce again.”
“No. Never.”
She bit her lip and looked up at him from beneath her lashes. “Kind of adds a new dimension to the whole until death do you part thing, huh? Knowing that it might not ever happen? We’re really going to be testing that vow out, aren’t we?”
He barked out a laugh and gave her another quick kiss. “We have forever to test it out, moja ljubav. Forever.”
Lucy couldn’t wait. Because forever? It was sounding pretty good right about now.
EPILOGUE
What? You wanted more? Well, I’ve never been too keen on epilogues, but OK. Here’s what happened next:
Elsie did in fact know a guy who was able to get rid of Branka’s body without a trace. Not that anyone missed her. Everyone who knew she was in the United States just assumed she went back to Croatia and never bothered looking for her. Turns out that having diplomatic immunity doesn’t mean you’re well liked or popular.
After that, Elsie took over Branka and Petar’s research and was able to come up with a few innovations that extended the lives of family pets painlessly and humanely. No animal testing was done, of course. She’s a bazillionaire now and happily living in a beach-front mansion on Maui.
On a somewhat related note, Queso just celebrated his twenty-seventh birthday.
Mrs. Hobbs happily retired (with a cool million-dollar bonus, courtesy of Viktor) and lets Lucy run the household. Every year on the anniversary of their wedding, she and Viktor open up the mansion to a Monster Match event. They hide in their alcove and spy on the proceedings, of course.
Hard as he tried, Viktor was unable to stop himself from returning to the dog rescue and bringing home three more dogs—a retired racing Greyhound named Bolt, an overweight Beagle named Beano who snores like a buzzsaw and smells like he’s dying from the inside out, and a three-legged former bomb dog (a Belgian Malinois) named Sergeant Snuggles who seems to sigh in exasperation every time anyone calls him by his full name. (It was Lucy who’d added the “snuggles” to his name, of course. He tolerates the indignity manfully, though, in exchange for plentiful head scratches and belly rubs.)
Queso, Greta Garbo, Jethro, and Yuma welcomed their new pack members with open arms—er, paws.
When she wasn’t balancing the books for Viktor’s charities or running the household, Lucy wrote a romance novel based on her relationship with Viktor called Monster of Convenience. It isn’t a runaway bestseller—yet—but every time she attends a book signing event, Viktor proudly wears a T-shirt that says, “Ask Me About My Wife’s Romance Novel” and never fails to sell a few a copies for her.
Viktor continues his charity work and grudgingly lets Lucy drag him out of the house at least once a month for a pizza at Momma’s.
Oh, and in case there was any doubt, they all lived happily ever after.
The End
But book 2 in the Sanity Falls series, Monster Mate, is now available everywhere books are sold!
And keep reading for samples of Caped and Dangerous, a grumpy, snarky superhero rom com, and Semi-Charmed, the first book in the Harper Hall Investigations paranormal romance series, and The Has-Been and the Hot Mess, a contemporary rom com with plenty of laughs and rescue dogs. All my stalker links and complete reading list are also there!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Big thanks to all the usual suspects:
My son, who is 99% awesome, but still leaves that tiny margin of error for plenty of “I told you so’s” which he knows I love dearly
My parents, who continue to be the most supportive parents in the world
My husband, who consistently has more faith in me than I have in myself (and again, you were right about the keyboard)
All the patient readers who quietly await each new release and never complain about how long it took to get it
Jaycee DeLorenzo, who consistently shocks me with her awesomeness
All the folks in the Bitch, Write Faster group. I’d be lost without you
LE Wilson, my author bestie who never fails to join me in blurb/marketing/writing hell when I need help the most
AFTERWORD
If you enjoyed this book, first of all, thanks for reading! It would mean a lot to me if you would take a moment and show your support of indie authors (like me) by leaving a review. Your reviews are a very important part of helping readers discover new books.
Want to know more about me, or the date of the next book release? You can email me directly at:
isabel.jordan@izzyjo.com
CAPED AND DANGEROUS
Being a superhero is not all it's cracked up to be…
CHAPTER 1
Being a superhero is not all it’s cracked up to be.
Evil doesn’t take a break because you have a date, or the flu, or just really want to stay home and binge-watch Supernatural on Netflix while wearing slouchy socks and sweatpants.
Nope. Superheroes don’t get vacation days. You’re pretty much on call 24-7, with crappy state-employee health benefits and damn near useless dental coverage.
And for what? The feel-good knowledge that you’re doing something good for your fellow man? The adoration of the public? Pfffttt. Sometimes the “adoring public” sues you because when you flew in to save them from a carjacking, you accidentally shattered their windshield with the bad guy’s head.
A thank-you would be customary in such situations, but it doesn’t happen as often as one would think.
And you know what else? Capes chafe the back of your neck like a bitch. They always feel like an irritating tag in the back of a $2 T-shirt.
These were all things Greer Glenanne, aka G-Force (a stupid nickname she did not choose for herself, mind you), wished someone had told her before she’d taken the gig as the official superhero for Gem City.
But that was twenty-ish years ago. Back when she was shiny and new and so idealistic it hurt. There’d been so many things she’d wanted to do, so many people she’d wanted to help. She’d been so sure she would save the world one day.
Now she got sued by the people she saved. (Yeah…that was a true story, sadly.) Her bum knee ached so badly every time it rained she was forced to limp on the job. Sometimes she woke up and her back hurt for no reason at all. Or she threw it out entirely because she sneezed wrong.
As it turned out, being able to fly and bench press a Buick didn’t protect you from all the typical middle-aged maladies that impacted normal folks.
Then there was the fact that she was in early onset menopause. That was a fun one. Hot flashes and heightened emotions. Just what every woman with superpowers should have.
So, if being a superhero sucked, being a middle-aged superhero sucked the biggest bag of dicks the world had ever known.
“Hey! Yo, G!”
Greer startled at the voice that popped into her ear, nearly causing her to spill the mug of hot chocolate she’d just pulled out of her microwave.
Yeah. That was another thing that sucked about being a superhero. The Bluetooth-enabled cochlear implant that allowed her team to reach her, anytime, anywhere.
Day. Or. Night.
The sheer number of times she’d taken calls while on the toilet was appalling.
“What?” she snapped, wishing more than anything that she could just drink her damn hot chocolate and go to bed. But Rio only said “Yo” in that tone when she wasn’t going to like what he had to say.
Rio Flores was her tech support, her project manager, her personal assistant, and her best friend all rolled into one six-foot-tall, ridiculously attractive gay man who had better style than all the Queer Eye guys combined. He was her Overwatch—the Felicity Smoak to her Green Arrow.
And he was about to ruin her night. She could just feel it, from the tips of her messy bun to the soles of her fuzzy pink bunny slippers.
“I got a call from Hottie McStudly, my friend.”
Greer groaned and squeezed her eyes shut. “Ugh. Not again. Please, don’t tell me.”
“OK. But he says he has something of yours. Again.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “See, I told you not to tell me.”
“Sorry,” Rio said, not sounding sorry at all. “But we don’t know for sure it’s her this time.”
Oh, of course it was her. It was always her. “Don’t patronize me.”
Bryn Terrell—no official superhero nickname yet—was and had always been a pain in the ass, ever since the state made her Greer’s trainee.
It wasn’t that Bryn was bad at the job. Quite the opposite, really. She was just overzealous. She tended to treat jaywalkers with the same “I am Justice” attitude she threw at bank robbers and muggers. She saw every petty thief and minor league crook in the state as evil. Greer had been at the superhero gig long enough to recognize all the shades of gray between good and evil.
There were so many shades of gray.
And Bryn’s righteous quest for justice was topped off with a mountain of blonde curls, perky, 20-year-old boobs, and a sweet, lilting voice. All of that made Bryn almost more than Greer could take on a good day.
And today was not a good day.
Bryn had, for some reason, made it her life’s mission to take down Killian Morgan, who Rio lovingly (or lustingly) referred to as Hottie McStudly.
About once a month for the past two years or so, Bryn got caught breaking into Killian’s billion-dollar, corporate high rise, looking for “evidence of wrongdoings”, as she put it.
Greer wasn’t entirely sure what Killian had done to make his millions, and she wasn’t certain what his employees did in that lavishly appointed high rise of his. What she did know was that he was way too smart to have any “evidence of wrongdoings” laying out where Bryn could stumble upon it.
And it wasn’t like Killian didn’t know that Bryn had X-ray vision. If there was anything in the building that could incriminate him, she would’ve seen it. Then she would’ve gleefully reported it all to Greer in that annoyingly pretty voice of hers, and Greer would’ve gotten a migraine.
Greer was willing to admit that, on some level, it irked her that Bryn might be at least a little right about Killian. The odds that he was completely innocent were most likely not favorable. After all, were any hot billionaires under fifty not crooked as hell? Greer didn’t see how they couldn’t be.
But as far as Greer knew, whatever Killian was doing wasn’t actively hurting anyone. If anything, he was probably guilty of a bunch of white-collar crimes and money-making schemes that Greer didn’t give a crap about. And Bryn wasn’t going to find evidence of any of that in his building, or she would’ve already.
So, here she was, again, in the position of going to the Morgan Enterprises building, and being forced to sweet talk Killian Morgan into not pressing charges against her trainee.
Which left Greer in yet another uncomfortable position. Because as much as she tried to ignore it, Killian Morgan was wildly attractive. And she did mean wildly. Like, throw-him-down-and-mount-him-like-a-rutting-beast wildly. She couldn’t afford to develop a crush on him or indulge in any flirting. She did not need a sexual harassment suit on her record.
Greer fanned her face. Great. Now she was having a hot flash. Just the thought of sexually harassing Killian gave her hot flashes. Fan-fucking-tastic.
“Kiss him ‘hi’ for me, G,” Rio said.
Greer let out an unladylike snort. “Yeah, sure. I’ll get right on that,” she said, still fanning her face.
“Honey, if I was you, I would’ve got on that years ago. Now, go collect the B-Team.”
“You know she hates it when you call her that.”
“I could call her Plan B, if you’d prefer? Betamax?”
Even in her foul mood, Greer got a chuckle out of that. “You know I love you, right?”
“Pfffttt. Of course you do. Who else would pick up your hormones from the drugstore and iron your capes?
Like it so far? You can pick it up right HERE
SEMI-CHARMED
She's infamous. He's legendary. Together, they'll be epic...or a complete train wreck. It could go either way, really...
CHAPTER 1
Whispering Hope, New York, present day
Harper Hall swatted the fast-fingered hand of yet another horny, middle-aged CPA off her ass, but resisted the urge to dump tequila in this one’s lap. After all, the Prince Valiant haircut and underbite he was saddled with were punishments enough for his crimes.
“Hey, baby,” Valiant’s friend said as he fondled his shot glass suggestively. “Is that a mirror in your pocket? ‘Cause I can definitely see myself in your pants.”
Harper rolled her eyes and shot back, “Darlin’, I’m not your type. I’m not inflatable.”
And with that, she turned on the heel of one of her requisite six-inch platforms and started for the bar as the CPAs chortled and bumped knuckles. They were probably looking at her butt too, but Harper chose not to dwell on that, or on the fact that most of said butt was hanging out of her Daisy Dukes. Not her best look, to be sure.
Lanie Cale, one of the other waitresses, grabbed her arm and leaned in, shouting over the music, “Hey, can you take over for me with the guy at table five? Carlos is letting me dance tonight. I go on in ten.”
Harper gave her a quick once over. Lanie was five years her junior, ten pounds lighter, and had her beat by a full cup size. If she was Lanie, she’d probably want to be a stripper too. But as it stood, she was stuck waiting tables with the other B-cups.
“Sure,” she answered. “But, Lanie, this guy at table five…he’s not a CPA, is he? I don’t think I have the strength for another CPA.”
“No way is this guy a CPA. I’d bet Thor’s abs on it,” she promised solemnly as she disappeared into the crowd.
At that moment, the sweaty throng of dancers and customers and waitresses parted, giving Harper her first glimpse of the guy at table five.
Wow. Thor’s abs were in no danger tonight.
The guy at table five was definitely not an accountant. Serial killer, maybe. CPA…um, no.
Table five was wedged in the corner, to the extreme right of the stage, which was why no one usually wanted to sit there. But instinct told Harper this guy had refused to sit anywhere else. This was one of those never-let-anyone-sneak-up-behind-you types, maybe with a military or law enforcement background. Paranoid and probably with good reason.
Everything about him screamed tall, dark, and brooding. From the black hair long overdue for a trim to the black-on-black wardrobe, complete with biker boots and a Highlander-like leather trench, this guy was either a true rebel without a cause, or the best imitation of one she’d ever seen.
And he was drunk off his ass. Not the kind of happy, silly drunk the CPAs at table ten had going. No, Harper could tell by the way he was ignoring the half-naked dancer on stage that he was drowning his sorrows.
Ignoring Misty Mountains wasn’t easy, either. Her brand-new double D’s were mesmerizing, and the nipples kind of followed you wherever you went like the eyes on the creepy Jesus picture in her mom’s living room.
As Harper watched, he polished off a bottle of Glenlivet and set it beside three other empties. She sighed. He’d probably pass out before he remembered to tip her. Damn drunks would be the death of her.
Harper squared her shoulders and walked up to the table, then knelt beside him so he could hear her over the driving beat of Bon Jovi’s Lay Your Hands On Me.
“Can I get you anything else, sir? Like coffee?” Hint, hint.
He didn’t even glance at her as he slid the empty bottles to the edge of the table and said, “Another bottle.”
His voice sent a shiver down her spine. It was gravelly, raspy, almost like he’d growled the words instead of speaking them. Sexy.
