Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54626 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54626 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
He bowed his head, perplexed by her sudden turn. “I only ask that you take good care of my shop, of my customers, and that you air out your nipples on your own time.”
“We’ll see about that, but good luck on your trip. I hope you find what Cimil’s looking for. That woman is scary as hell.”
No shit. “Thank you. I will call tomorrow.”
CHAPTER THREE
The woman’s name was Sky Morales. Thirty-two years old. Dark brown hair. Very attractive face.
No. No. Not attractive. Especially her full lips and ample bosom. She was plain, unremarkable, and definitely not worth looking at. At least, that was the lie he needed to tell himself. His lust was a luxury she could not afford.
Keep it professional, Greystone, he told himself.
From her photos on social media, he’d say she was a size ten and enjoyed provocative yet professional clothing—tight tailored skirts, snug satin blouses, lots of cleavage. Not so unusual for someone in the public eye. An independent journalist and entrepreneur with a popular news site, coveted for non-biased reporting: Sky’s Fresh Air News. Transparent, nonpartisan, and independent.
What he found unusual, however, was how Sky had recently received national recognition for publishing a series of investigative reports exposing sex traffickers in California. Why would a woman just hitting her stride professionally go public with a wild story about a winged creature attacking her?
According to the police report and the interview she gave several weeks ago, she had been shopping with her sister at SouthPark Mall, near Cleveland, Ohio, when she was attacked in a sporting goods store.
Yes, that sporting goods store. Named after a penis.
It was a well-known fact that sex fairies were drawn to places with sexy names: Hand Job Nail Spa, Dirty Hoe Garden Supplies, and Master Bait Tackle Shop, to name a few. Then there were the towns: Climax, Colorado. Bald Knob, Arkansas. Mary’s Igloo, Alaska. Sugar Tit, Kentucky. If the name sounded dirty, a sex fairy could be found nearby despite the lack of anything particularly sexual occurring in these places.
No one ever said sex fairies were smart.
But back to Sky. She gave intimate details of trying on a swimsuit for an upcoming camping trip with her sister and nephew. She claimed she slid the bikini bottoms over her underwear and suddenly felt something moving around.
She pulled the bottoms down to find a purplish winged creature about the size of a hummingbird. She screamed, swatted at the thing, and fell down, only to have it dive into her panties, where Sky wrestled with the thing and managed to keep it from, well, doing what sex fairies did.
Interesting. Sky’s account of the attack sounded legitimate. Sex fairies were known to get aggressive when startled or afraid. Simply put, they looked for the nearest place to hide. If it happened to be a human orifice, so be it.
But had this been a fairy attack, or had the creature been frightened by something?
Damien turned off the engine of the Suburban he’d rented at the airport. Not his usual ride, but they’d been out of sedans. Back home, he owned over twenty cars—a red 1959 Porsche Roadster, 2023 silver Audi, black Jeep Rubicon, and baby blue 1965 VW Bug, to name a few. He collected anything with a convertible top. New, old, didn’t matter. Driving with the wind in his hair was his biggest vice. That and a fine scotch. All right, and Chinese food. Especially the fried stuff. When one was immortal and did not cook, you got to eat whatever you liked.
Damien exited the SUV and double-checked the address Cimil had texted him. This was the place, but the blue ranch-style house did not fit what he’d learned about the journalist. Outspoken, educated, career driven, and a confident dresser. The lawn had not been mowed in weeks, a pile of wet rotting newspapers sat in the driveway, and the windows had foil taped over the glass. It was early evening, and there were no lights on outside, either.
He walked up the leaf-covered sidewalk, noting the mail overflowing from the box beside the door. He grabbed an envelope to check the name. It was addressed to Sky Morales, so this had to be the correct house. Was she out of town?
He rang the doorbell, listening for movement inside.
Nothing.
He looked over his shoulder and pulled a pair of black leather gloves from his jacket, followed by his lockpick set. He pushed in the pick and tension tool, turning until he heard a pop! He always did love that sound. Success.
Damien quickly slipped inside. The living room was dark, smelling of old pizza, and there were books stacked into various piles on the carpeted floor.
He bent down and grabbed one. The History of Fantastic Creatures? He put the book back, mapping out a plan in his mind to comb through the house for clues. Who was Sky really? Did she have any side businesses that might’ve led to the fairy attack? What were her secrets?