Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
An exclusive interview with the leader of the world's deadliest drug cartel.
The last interviewer didn't make it out alive.
My family begs me not to take it.
My friends say I'm crazy.
My boss agrees to let me go, if I take a bodyguard with me.
I'm curious to know what kind of bodyguard can protect me from a whole cartel of killers.
And I find out.
The savage kind.
He's a hot grizzly bear shifter named Ryker.
He takes me under those big protective arms and dark watchful eyes.
Ryker says I'm his and that he won't let anything bad happen to me.
But when the interview turns ugly, things get dangerous.
And it's me and my shifter bodyguard against an army of killers.
Luckily, Ryker is unstoppable when it comes to protecting his mate.
Need a big muscular protector? Spartan Shield Corp has got you covered. Alien, shifter, human—take your pick, we got it all. Call now to reserve your bodyguard today!
Disclaimer: Spartan Shield Corp is not responsible if your hot alpha defender becomes overly possessive and/or becomes obsessed with you.
The Back Away From My Girl series mixes Contemporary, Paranormal, and Sci Fi Romance in six standalone stories by best-selling STEAMY authors, Olivia T. Turner, Hope Ford, Michele Mills, Ariana Hawkes, Cassie Mint, and Honey Phillips.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER ONE
Gracie
“This has got to be a prank,” I whisper to my photographer, Steve. “There’s no way this is real life.”
“Unfortunately, this is as real as it gets,” Steve says with a sigh.
He’s been a photographer at our news station for over thirty years and he’s seen everything, but even he hasn’t seen a haunted dishwasher before.
“It’s possessed!” the frazzled owner of the house I’m standing in says. “It talks all night!”
The house is a mess with empty wine bottles lined up on the counter and an old mangy cat hiding under the table who’s looking at me like it can’t believe I’m standing in this kitchen voluntarily.
“What does it say?” I ask as I pull out my notebook.
Steve gives me a look. He can’t believe I’m humoring her. It’s more than that though. I’m a reporter and being a reporter means tirelessly digging for stories, even when there’s no story in sight. You never know what you can dig up with a little elbow grease.
“It speaks a language I can’t understand,” she says as she bites her bottom lip. “I was hoping you could help me with that.”
“I speak English,” I say with a smile. “And un peu du Français.”
Steve lifts his camera to take a picture, but as he looks around, he realizes there’s nothing worth photographing so he lowers it with a sigh.
“Can you turn it on?” I ask the lady.
“Sure,” she says as she takes some dirty glasses out of the sink and puts them into the dishwasher.
My pulse races a little as she pushes the on button. How cool would it be if this dishwasher was actually possessed? It would be the story of the century, and I desperately need a story. The only scoops I’ve had since I’ve been a reporter have been on top of the many ice cream cones I’ve eaten at the end of long horrible days.
My career in news peaked in college. I interviewed a CEO of a huge Fortune 500 company for the University paper and I caught on to some fraudulent activity. I researched it, wrote it up into an article, and the real news picked it up. The guy got fired. It was a big deal at the time.
But no one cares anymore. The news moves fast and if you’re not constantly producing compelling new stories, you get left behind. It helped me land this job, but it hasn’t done much for me beyond that.
I’m not getting assigned any juicy stories. No corruption. No fraud. No murder. Just crap. Filler stories. Embarrassing stories.
Last week, I covered a dog who went viral for getting its head stuck in a fence and a lady who turned one hundred years old. She wouldn’t let me into her house and screamed at me to get off her porch before she called the cops. Happy birthday, you old hag.
I need something good. Some meat. Something with substance.
I’m ready for some big interviews with powerful people. Movers and shakers who make the world turn. That’s what I want. That’s what excites me. Not this. Whatever this is.
“See?” the lady says, staring at me with a smug look as the dishwasher begins to make noise. “It’s haunted.”
I twist my face up as I hear the water wooshing through the pipes.
“It sounds like an old shitty dishwasher,” Steve says, eyeing the door.
The old cat is eying it too. She might try to make a break for it when we leave. I don’t think I’d stop her.
“It’s a demonic language,” the lady says. “Listen. Agudabu shosshanu.”
I wince as I look at her. “It sounds like water to me. Sorry.”
She frowns as we head to the door.
“Anything else?” I ask, a seed of hope blooming inside me. “Any unsolved murders or corruption in the family?”
“My kids won’t talk to me,” the lady says.
The blooming hope withers and dies as Steve opens the door. “Next time call a repair man.”
He takes one step onto the decrepit porch and the cat rockets to the door with huge wild eyes. The lady snaps it up just as it’s about to taste freedom for the first time. She clutches it to her chest while it wiggles like crazy, meowing in desperation.
“Good luck,” I whisper to the cat as I follow Steve onto the porch.
“That was a waste of time,” I say as I get into the car. “Shockingly.”
“Not a total waste,” he says as he pulls out of the driveway. “There’s a coffee shop near here that has the best donuts.”
“How is a coffee shop going to get me a Pulitzer Prize?” I mutter as I gaze out the window at the sunny summer day.
Even though I’m stuck in this shitty little regional new station, I have big dreams and aspirations. Growing up, my friends all worshipped Taylor Swift, Kendall Jenner, and Rhianna. Not me. I had posters of Christiane Amanpour, Katie Couric, and Diane Sawyer on my walls.