Firetrap: The Soul Scorchers MC (The Scorched Souls Serial-series Book 1) (13 page)

Author’s Note

Thank you so much for taking the time to read the beginning of Boone and Olympia’s story. If you enjoyed their adventure, would you consider leaving a review on both Amazon and Goodreads? Your comments can really make a difference in helping readers choose what books to read.

There is much more to come with Boone and Olympia’s journey. The next book in the series is
Fire Fight
. Following
Fire Fight
is
Firestorm
, and the series will end with
Fireworks
. You can watch for release details on my blog or Facebook pages. I’d love for you to visit me on my social media sites. Drop by. Say hello!

Facebook Fan Page
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You can email me at
[email protected]

And don’t forget to check out my dark fantasy romance:

Bottle Banished: Dreaming of Genie:

Sample of

Bottle Banished: Dreaming of Genie

C.L. Riley

Prologue 

San Francisco, CA 1977

Genie

“No! Please!” Genie pleaded, her panic rising.

She’d been so careful, cautious to the point of paranoia. “Don’t do this. I will serve you well. I will grant you a wish, any wish.” She struggled to find her tormentor’s one hidden desire. A desire she alone could fulfill.

Until this moment, where others had failed, she had managed to avoid bottle banishment.

Genie prided herself on her ability to stay at least one step, preferably more, ahead of the hunters. She’d survived to 1977 without losing her freedom. It seemed after centuries, her luck had at last run out.

How could I have been so blind?

Trapped inside the dreaded ring of chalk-drawn runes and magical sigils, she was defenseless. Her own magic rendered useless by an ancient spell, cast with assurance, by the smirking hunter gripping her future glass prison in his hand. This hunter, she guessed, was not government sanctioned. His methods appeared less refined, though just as effective. She hated to imagine what he had in store before imprisoning her.

“I sense your fear,” he chuckled, sounding crazed. “See this bottle? You, my beauty, are going inside, where you will stay. I hope you have a strong stomach. I’ve heard ocean waves…”

“Just do it! You offend me!” Her voice wavered despite the brave words.

As a creature of fire, she despised water. To be water bound for eternity was a genie’s worst nightmare. The hunter wanted her to suffer.

His jaw tensed and his eyes narrowed. “I’m tempted to tear that ridiculous harem outfit off and ruin you like your kind ruined my family.”

Genie gasped, stunned by his revelation. She forgot her precarious position long enough to ponder his words. One of her brethren had clearly harmed this hunter’s family, driving his desire for revenge. Never had she hurt a human or used her powers for evil.

Why must I be punished for another’s crime?

“Don’t like that idea, do you? Be glad I’m not into whores, even pretty ones.” Extending the bottle, his gaze hardened. With conviction, he chanted the words every genie feared and hoped to never hear, confirming what she suspected.

Nothing she could offer would stop him.

A sudden explosion knocked her back. She hit hard against the circle’s border, the impact ripping the air from her lungs; still, the hunter’s wards held strong. The resulting flash stole her vision just before another blast created a whirlwind, erasing her human body and turning her to smoke. Sucked into the glass prison, she landed with a thud, her rump hitting the bottle’s floor, firing a spike of pain up her spine. She had morphed into a three inch version of herself.

Forcing her eyes open, she was met with a harsh reality. Unlike a certain popular television show, featuring a genie and astronaut, her bottle wasn’t furnished with plush sofas and colorful cushions. It was barren, boring, and lacked any comforts. The sole thing keeping Genie from complete panic was the awareness that once sleep found her, she wouldn’t awaken again unless the bottle was uncorked.

That might be a long time coming, if ever.

“Ouch!” she cried, hating how squeaky her voice sounded as she bounced from one side to the other, slamming against the glass. Her captor intended to make her final journey an unpleasant one.

When at last her purple prison splashed into the water, she was too banged up to worry about his wave-warning. She scanned her surroundings a final time, noticing the gleam of gold lettering etched around the bottle’s exterior. Unable to make sense of the writing, she hung her head, giving into despair.

To her relief, the rocking motion soon lulled her closer to sleep rather than causing the promised sea sickness.

Closing her eyes for the last time, she accepted her fate.

Chapter One

Portland, OR 2014

Reid Romans 

The quarter tossed in his old Dodgers cap was accompanied by a kick in the shin and a half-demand half-question, “Get a job, why don’t you?” Laced with disapproval, the words were a variation on the same ones he’d heard at least a thousand times since starting his street begging business.

He didn’t bother replying. They didn’t care. No one did, not really.

Well, maybe the local street preachers. At the very least, they were concerned about his soul’s salvation. And Bob down at The Mission; he’d been known to utter a kind word or two during mealtimes. But Reid Romans wasn’t looking for the type of help Bob and his ilk offered. He’d been there and tried that route, more than once.

When it came to the step where he was supposed to confess all his wrongdoings to a trusted confidant, he’d inevitably find himself hunched over a bar complaining at the man behind the counter rather than spilling his sordid secrets to some reformed drunk at a meeting or priest in a box. He’d yet to find a better confessional than a spot on a stool at a well-stocked bar. The right bartender listened without judgment and understood when a refill rather than a reply was best. Skills Reid admired.

All his thinking about bars had him thirstier than he’d been a minute earlier, and he’d been damn thirsty then.

Peering through greasy, overgrown hair, his gaze followed the three laughing teens as they sauntered into Powell’s Bookstore. The tallest, a bulky football type, cast a departing glance over his shoulder. Reid started to thank him for the sure-to-show bruise on his shin but swallowed his sarcasm as more potential money donors locked up their bikes in the nearby racks. Offensive smack talk, even deserved, didn’t bode well with potential donors. He’d learned that the hard way.

Open late, the bookstore’s customers frequently provided generous donations for his evening bottle, making the occasional abuse tolerable. Reid understood the boys believed they’d insulted him with the quarter, but he knew different. The coin brought him one step closer to the amount needed to complete his nightly purchase.

The liquid relief he required to keep his past in the past, where it belonged, was just a block east, waiting on the second shelf from the floor on the back wall. On a good night, the relief might even extend to the present, giving him a few hours of foggy freedom.

The future was different matter altogether.

Keeping it at arm’s length required more whiskey than he could afford. These days he didn’t worry much about tomorrow anyway. Waking up wasn’t guaranteed, and he hadn’t had any hopes or dreams for years.

Not since that night, you filthy coward.

How could he forget
that night
with the constant reminders that came from the voice inside his head? The booze silenced the voice temporarily but never drowned it out completely. It always resurfaced, taunting and tearing at what was left of his tarnished soul. If the pamphlet toting pastors knew his secret, they would keep their soul-saving speeches for someone worth saving, someone whose skeletons rattled a little less loudly from the closet.

A smiling older woman interrupted his rambling thoughts. She dropped a fiver in his hat and nodded.

“Much appreciated,” he managed, his voice unsteady. The shakes were creeping up right on schedule, possibly earlier. Not a good sign.

Eager to avoid the increasing discomfort and stop the accusatory voice in his head, he pushed up from his spot against the streetlight and staggered to his feet, making a halfhearted attempt to brush off his stained pants. Clean laundry was a luxury. One he couldn’t afford very often.

Ignoring the glances and sidesteps from others sharing the Northwest Portland sidewalk, he stumbled forward and made his way to the corner liquor store—
Harlan’s Fine Liquors
.

Hugging his hat close, he felt his stomach clench. The pre-drink anticipation lasted from the moment he reached his dollar quota until his lips kissed the bottle. Only the fiery liquid burning its familiar trail down his throat could calm the churning sea in his stomach. Tonight, to make matters worse, his leg throbbed, thanks to Mr. Football’s steel-toed boot, and his hands trembled as a fresh dose of anxiety crept up his spine into his hairline like a trail of ants marching into a picnic basket. He shivered, hoping to dislodge the imagined insects.

Ten more steps. Nine…

“Whatcha got in your hat, daddy-o?”

“He’s sure holding on tight, ain’t he?” another voice snickered.

No! Not tonight. If he’d had the energy to run, he would have.

The two thugs blocking his path made it their mission to patrol the streets searching for anyone less fortunate than themselves. They’d earned the nicknames Starsky and Hutch. Reid couldn’t figure out why the names had stuck. They were more like bully versions of Laurel and Hardy, always attempting to be funny as they accosted their latest victims but failing miserably.

One thing they didn’t fail at was getting what they wanted; and tonight, they wanted his money.

He’d spotted them across the street earlier but hadn’t given it much thought. In the two years he’d made his home on Portland’s streets, they’d left him alone. It appeared the time to pay dues had finally come.

Why tonight?

Reid couldn’t remember feeling this edgy, not in a long time. If he was forced to go without a drink, the resulting withdrawal could send him to the nearest detox center or jail cell. That was unacceptable. He didn’t dare risk a paper trail. Someone might recognize him. If that happened, he’d face enemies far worse than the two idiots leering at his worn Dodger’s cap.

“Why don’t you find someone else to rob? Catch up with me another day.” Reid made his own stab at being funny.

The one called Hutch, cocked his head and yawned. Starsky elbowed him. “Give the man credit. He ain’t fallen on the ground beggin’ us to get lost.”

“Either way, we’re taking the hat. The Dodgers are my team, man. Hand it over.” Hutch pushed his chest out, backing Reid up against the cigar shop’s brick wall. “Now,” he hissed.

A flash of silver and a sharp prick under Reid’s ribs signaled game time was over. Despite the pressure, he held Hutch’s gaze and discerned the madness lurking behind his bloodshot eyes. Reluctantly, he surrendered his cap and the money he’d spent six grueling hours to earn.

The blade slid away, back into whatever hidey-hole it had come from. The creep sneered, patting Reid’s shoulder. “Good man. We’ll be seeing you around.” Hutch dug inside the hat and snatched the money, stuffing it into his pocket. When he popped the cap over his dreadlocks, Reid growled, the urge to react overpowering.

After a celebratory high-five, the duo slithered between buildings like two snakes on their way to infect another unsuspecting bum with their venom.

“Damn it!” Reid hit the bricks with his fist. A rush of fire blazed through his knuckles, igniting his adrenaline. He clenched his teeth. It was a good thing the assholes hadn’t crossed his path back when. Walking away would not have been an option.

“Excuse you,” a passerby snipped, making no attempt to hide her disapproval. “Young ears are listening.” She tugged a grinning boy closer.

Fighting the urge to say something far more colorful than damn it to the “young ears,” Reid stomped with adrenaline-laced energy down the final quarter block to the liquor store. Maybe he could stock shelves, sweep floors, dump trash, anything to earn his medicine.

He stuffed his swelling hand into his left pocket and turned the doorknob with the other, entering the gloomy store he’d visited every night since 2012. The familiar tang of cleaning supplies and the mingling odors those products couldn’t quite eliminate, assaulted his nostrils, bringing a trail of unwanted memories along with them.

Jinn Kûru

Kûru gazed across the murky Willamette River from his place on Portland’s Waterfront. Forearms resting on the rail, he watched a boat sail past, its passengers’ laughter reaching him on the wind. He was tempted to turn into a smoke spiral. In that form he could ride the evening’s balmy breeze to the boat and see what trivial nonsense had the foursome so filled with mirth.

Rarely, if ever, did he experience anything close to joy, which considering his elevated station and possessions was pitiable. Hoping to find a moment of happiness in the presence of the humans he despised only served to fuel his need for vengeance.

As the ruler of his jinn clan, he had left his desert home far behind to avenge the recent banishment of one of his few surviving family members, his nephew, Numair. The foolish young jinn had become enamored with a woman vacationing with her girlfriends in Cairo and had discovered far too late that her husband was Marco “The Smasher” Santiago, a modern day gangster and drug cartel boss with an insatiable taste for violence. 

Using magic to cover his blue skin, the love struck jinn had pursued the woman for his already abundant harem. Unluckily for him, one of her Middle Eastern travel guides was aware of genies and their ways, identifying him for what he was—a Marid Djinn from one of the most powerful bloodlines, known for aiding great kings and priests with their unmatchable brand of magic.

The guide’s father had been a hunter, leaving his son with enough hunting skills to be dangerous. With the help of Santiago’s woman and her friends, they’d lured the young jinn back to the States, using him to their advantage until he became too rebellious to control. At which time they’d bottle banished him.

Kûru had learned of his Numair’s demise too late to intervene, and his own journey to America had been riddled with problems. He had eluded several persistent hunters, making the trip even longer. He planned to enact a bloody revenge on the drug cartel’s family and businesses, and he intended to remain free in the process. If he was lucky, he would find a new woman for his own harem. His clans’ males required multiple sexual encounters to stay sane. He tired of the exotic beauties who currently roamed his palace competing for a night in his chambers. 

The one female he desired above all others was a genie. He’d lost track of her in the late seventies. She’d rejected his advances at every opportunity, which only increased his longing to possess her. Should she cross his path again, he would take her by force if necessary. It was his right, after all. She would belong to him forever.

Mark Harlan

Mark had never seen Reid so shaken. When he stumbled through the liquor store’s door, looking like a man possessed with more than a thirst for booze, Mark was tempted to call 911. He knew better. Reid would never forgive him, and like it or not, the guy was one of his most faithful customers.

Every night between 7:00 and 9:00 PM he could count on Reid’s money. Either a pint or fifth of Jack Daniels, depending how much he’d managed to scrape up. Sometimes, if he’d done well panhandling, he’d splurge on a bottle of Knob Creek. No cheap wine for Reid. Despite his meager earnings, it was whiskey for him. 

“They got me,” Reid stammered. “Took everything. I’d earned enough for something extra tonight. Damn!” He leaned against the counter, his whole body trembling.

Mark didn’t have to ask to know who. The two losers known to shakedown other street residents were notorious, their victims too afraid to report them. Like other retailers, Mark stayed silent about their questionable activities. A mysterious fire had destroyed a startup antique shop after the owner made an official complaint about the twosome.

“Where’d they jump you?” Mark didn’t want them anywhere near his business.

“Outside the cigar shop. They’d been keeping an eye on me at the bookstore. I should’ve known better.” Reid pounded a fist against the counter, sending the shot glass display on its side. “Man, I’m sorry. Let me…”

He righted the box and started stacking the glasses. Mark watched him for a minute. If it had been anyone else, he would have sent him on his way with a stern warning, but Reid wasn’t like some of the bums who frequented his shop.

Over all, Mark couldn’t complain. He had a pretty good clientele of business professionals and NW Portland regulars; however, there were the others, like Reid, who drank to survive the streets and whatever demons had set up shop in their minds. Sure Reid was street savvy and about as slick as the rest, but there was something under all the dirt and stench that seemed polished, refined even. Mark was certain he’d had money at one time. Maybe even a lot of it.