Hush Money (21 page)

“You don’t really need to call me. It’s nice
of you to offer, but I’ll be fine.”

“I’m calling you.”

“No, really. Don’t.”

“Joss, you might have just stopped Marco and
saved me from a life of crime,” he said, easing his arm around me
so my head rested on his shoulder, “and don’t think I don’t
appreciate it but . . .

“You are so not the boss of me.”

The End

The world of the Talent Chronicles was born
out of my love of both superheroes and romance. I’ve always been
drawn to the characters whose supernatural abilities set them apart
from everyone else. Some are loved by all and known by none, some
are woefully misunderstood and mistreated by those they serve.
Traditionally, the life of the super-powered being seems to be one
destined for loneliness, and yet so deserving of a happily ever
after.

That’s what I wanted to give them, and that’s
how the world of the Talent Chronicles came into being.

Hush Money
is the first story to be
completed in their world. A second story, tentatively titled
Heroes ’Til Curfew
, is currently in the works. I hope you’ll
join me in their future adventures. For up-to-date release and
contact information, please visit me at
http://susan-bischoff.com

The author wishes to give a grateful
shout-out to the following people:

To Kait Nolan, fantastic writer, dearest
friend, and invaluable partner in crime, for brainstorming,
cajoling, editing, finding Joss’s face, hand-holding, honesty,
fight scene choreography, technical and emotional support, and…I
could go on all day. Thanks for being absolutely the best critique
partner anyone could ask for. You are THE person who made this book
possible.

To Zoe Winters (Zoe Who?), for inspiration,
answers to a million questions, outrageous laughs, beta reading,
and did I mention inspiration? Thanks for being your kick-ass self,
bitches.

To Amanda, Victoria, Megan, Valerie, Alex,
Christel, Brandi, Heather, and Mom for beta reading, enthusiasm,
and typo-corrections.

To Robin Ludwig, Robin Ludwig Design Inc.,
for stepping in and putting together a wonderful cover for me, very
quickly. Thanks for all your attention and beautiful work.

To my daughter, Briar Rose, for putting up
with my divided attention or lack thereof. And to my parents, for
occasionally entertaining her so I could write.

To my husband, Les, for being the kind of
guy all my heroes aspire to be, and for putting up with a lot.
Trust me, a
lot
.

And
lastly, to Mr. Stokas, my favorite teacher ever, for telling me to
write.

Can’t get enough Teen Paranormal
Romance?

Please continue reading for excerpts
from

some great indie authors…

An excerpt from

By Stacey Wallace Benefiel

I stared at the back of Avery Adams head,
imagining what it would feel like to press my face into his wavy
brown hair. I longed to experience the exhilaration of running my
fingertips over his broad shoulders and down his chest, of standing
that close to him, feeling the heat coming off of his golden
skin.

He was two people ahead of me in the line to
take communion. I tried to focus on the smell of his shampoo.
Unfortunately, the two people between us were my mom, and his dad.
With them blocking the way, all I could smell was tea rose perfume
and extra strength drain cleaner. Not a pleasant combination.

The line moved forward. The woman behind me,
Mrs. Hobby, stepped on the back of my heel, scraping it with the
pointy toe of her white patent leather flat.

“Ouch!” I said, way too loudly. The
congregants of my white bread Lutheran church were not prone to
exclamation of any kind. I flushed my usual shade of flame as
everyone looked at me, including Avery. Mortified, I wheeled
around, facing Mrs. Hobby, accidentally knocking off her massive
white Easter hat. I caught it mid-air and jammed it back on her
head. “Sorry! I was spacing out,” I whispered, like the whole
church couldn’t hear what I was saying.

“Zellie!” Mom hissed at me from the front of
the church.

“Uh, here we go, our turn at bat.” I ran up
to the altar and knelt down, bowing my head, touching my chin to my
chest.

Someone in the back of the church snorted a
laugh. It sounded like Claire. A giggle shimmied up my throat.
Claire was my best friend and a frequent witness to my extreme
dorkiness. She could also make me get the giggles at the most
inappropriate moments.

I raised my head and took the communion wafer
that my dad, Pastor Paul, offered, clamping my mouth shut before
the giggles could escape and embarrass me even further. I glanced
down the altar, wishing that the elder would hurry up with my tiny
plastic cup of wine. I always seemed to get the communion wafer
stuck to the roof of my mouth and then had to engage in some major
tonguing in order to get it loose.

Avery leaned forward, taking his wafer from
my dad. He swallowed it in one smooth gulp and then gave me a
confused grin.

Oh, God, he must think I’m looking at him! I
immediately stopped trying to pry the wafer loose with my tongue
and put my chin to my chest again. What could I have looked like? I
tried to float above myself, picture my face. What I conjured was
not a flattering image. I had one eye closed, nostrils flaring, my
tongue flicking back and forth. What the hell was my problem? I
looked like a cat coughing up a fur ball. Ugh.

When everyone was served communion, I got up,
avoiding my dad’s bemused look and went back to the second pew
where me, my mom and my sister Melody always sit.

Melody shook her head and flicked me on the
back of my arm as I stepped past her and sat down in the pew. “Way
to make a butt of yourself, Zel,” she whispered into my ear.

“Whatever, hose beast.” I flicked her on the
knee and scooted away from her, closer to Mom.

She rolled her eyes at me. “Like I even know
what that means.”

Dad stepped up to the pulpit and shuffled his
notes around in his hands. He was old school, writing his sermons
in longhand on yellow legal pad paper. Assistant Pastor Morris
wrote his on a computer and then downloaded it onto his BlackBerry,
like someone from this century.

The sermon was my favorite part of the church
service, not because my dad was such a charismatic speaker or
anything, but because I could get in some good Avery daydreaming
time. And, since he didn’t know I was alive, daydream time was the
only quality time I got to spend with him.

I leaned forward and put my forehead against
the pew in front of me, rubbing my temples as though I had a
headache. Turning my head the smallest increment to the side, I
looked past my mom across the aisle to where Avery sat.

He was so beautiful it kinda hurt my heart to
look at him. Ah well, I was in church after all, let the self
flagellation commence!

I began at his feet. Polished black dress
shoes, black socks slouching at the ankles, a glimpse of beautiful
calf, his khaki pants hiked up just a little.

Moving up, I lingered on his hand resting
atop his knee, his long, thin fingers spread out. I took a deep
breath and envisioned reaching out my hand and intertwining my
fingers with his. Running my thumb across the top of his hand from
wrist to knuckle, brushing my fingertips up his forearm.

In my imagination I was sitting next to him,
pressing the side of my thigh against his, then elbow to elbow,
shoulder to shoulder. My lips grazed the bend of his neck, the line
of his jaw, the corner of his mouth, across his lips. Then we were
forehead to forehead, my hands in his hair, I inhaled him in--

“Ow!” I sat up straight, smarting from the
sharp elbow to the ribs Melody had given me.

“It’s time to sing!” She yanked me up and
thrust an open hymnal into my hands.

On pastor’s daughter autopilot, I sang,
“Christ our Lord is risen today, haaaaaa-le-loo-oo-yah!”

“Hazel Grace Wells, you are going to burn a
hole in the back of Avery’s head as hard as you were staring at
him.” Mom turned from the driver’s seat of our navy blue minivan,
which was only six months younger than me. “Don’t think I couldn’t
feel you looking, and in church of all places! How would you feel
if your father had noticed you concentrating more on Avery than on
God? He would not have appreciated it, young--”

“Mom, you’re about to drive into Mrs.
Woodbury’s mailbox.”

She whipped her head back around, swerving
away from the Woodburys fiberglass mailbox.

“Dang it!” She pulled the minivan off of the
gravel shoulder and back onto the black top.

“Gee, Mom,” I said, a smirk spreading across
my mouth, “what would Dad think of
you
concentrating on
me
concentrating on Avery while you’re driving? I don’t
think he would appreciate it very much.”

“Zip it, Zellie.”

I caught Mom’s eyes in the rearview mirror
and locked on a reflection so much like my own it was freaky. We
have the same long auburn hair and green eyes, the same hot pink
flush across our cheeks.

Even though Mom grew up in Rosedell and
everybody knows who we are, I was forever getting lame joke-y
questions about my “older sister.” Well, as much as we looked the
same, Melody and Mom acted the same. It’s not like I want to be
Grace’s (and she would kill me if I ever called her that in real
life) clone or something.

Mom took the exit just past Wal-Mart off of
Rosedell’s main drag onto the highway. I watched the scenery go by
at 55 miles an hour as we passed the lake and the lava rock fields
getting closer to Mt. Scott and to the edge of town. She parked the
minivan in front of the See-Saw diner, our usual Sunday lunch
place.

We slid into opposite sides of a red vinyl
booth. The waitress, Jan, was right behind us, plopping water
glasses down on the yellow Formica table.

“Happy Easter ladies!” she said. “Two
burgers, two chocolate shakes for here, two BLT’s to-go?” She was
already writing it down on her order pad.

“Just for me and Zel today, Jan,” Mom said.
“Paul and Melody are going to have Easter lunch at the
Wallaces.”

She crossed out part of the order. “Okay,
I’ll get this in for you and be back with the shakes in a
jiff.”

Mom dug around in her enormous brown leather
purse until she found a small notebook. She flipped through the
pages, stopping about halfway. “Ready for today’s roster?”

This was a guessing game the two of us played
every Sunday before we visited ill members of the congregation. I
was pretty good at it and getting better the older I got, but Mom
was exceptional. I nodded my head. “Ready.”

“Jerry Hill. On previous occasions we have
visited him for gout, appendicitis, and tennis elbow.”

I closed my eyes and saw Mr. Hill sitting in
his cushy beige recliner in the family room of his ranch house,
watching the farm report on his dinky TV. He had a blanket tucked
up under his chin. His eyes and nose were red. “Pfft! Easy,” I
said, giving Mom a “really?” look, “He’s just got a cold, maybe a
touch of hay fever. Next.”

“Let’s see if I can find a harder one,” she
scanned the page. “Alright, here we go. Lanie Graham. We haven’t
visited her before and she only attends church once a month.”

I chewed on my bottom lip, trying to
concentrate. This one was way difficult. I couldn’t picture what
she looked like at all. “This is a hard one. Let me think...I feel
like it has something to do with her eyes...” An image popped into
my head of an older lady with cloudy eyes. I could hear the sound
of a monitor beeping. Two words floated into my consciousness.
“Cataract surgery?” I guessed. Mom looked both a little bit proud
and a little bit worried, if that was possible. I slapped the table
with my hand. I knew I was right.

Jan brought our order. “Right again, huh?”
She smiled at me, shaking her head back and forth. “I do not know
how you do that.”

I shrugged my shoulders. I wasn’t entirely
sure how I did it either, I just did. “It runs in the family, Mom’s
really good at it too. I won’t even let her guess anymore, she
never misses.”

Mom stuck the notebook back into her purse
and waved my comment away. “Ah, it’s a stupid parlor trick. You
just have to trust your gut.”

I sat at Mr. Hill’s kitchen table staring up
at the feed store calendar on the fridge. It featured a herd of
cattle in a dusty pasture flanked by grey-blue mountains. The
slogan “Rosedell Beef-
Central to Oregon
” was emblazoned
across the expansive blue sky. When I looked out the window above
the sink, I saw pretty much the same scene with the addition of a
ranch hand burning trash in the far corner of the field.
De-pressing
. I drummed my fingers on the table to up my
excitement level.

After about a minute of that, I got up and
went to the black rotary phone on the wall. Lots of people in
Rosedell still had old-timey phones. Again,
de-pressing
. I
picked up the receiver and held the phone to my ear. I listened for
a dial tone. It hummed back at me.

It was sort of against the rules for me to
use other people’s phones without asking. I knew that, but if I
were a regular teenager and not like, what my parents expected me
to be, a future bride of Jesus or whatever, I would be allowed to
have a cell phone. Then, when I was having a weirdly bitchy off day
I could go out to the minivan and talk to Claire about my upcoming
birthday party or Avery or lava rock formation, instead of stewing
in my boredom.

I let out a deep breath. How much trouble
could I get in? I dialed Claire’s cell.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” I whispered, “I’m at the Hill ranch
with Mom, totally bored. What are you doing?”