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Authors: B. L. Brooklyn

The Carver's Magic

BOOK: The Carver's Magic
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The Carver’s Magic



B. L. Brooklyn

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.


by B.L
. Brooklyn and Randi Gause


The Caver’s Magic Copyright © 2012 B. L. Brooklyn

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in the articles or reviews.


eBook ISBN-13: 9780996704106

ISBN: 0996704116

Paperback ISBN-13: 9780996704113






For everyone who has ever felt the fire in their blood.







Chapter One - Shane

Chapter Two - Beth

Chapter Three - Shane

Chapter Four - Beth

Chapter Five - Shane

Chapter Six - Beth

Chapter Seven - Shane

Chapter Eight - Shane

Chapter Nine - Beth

Chapter Ten - Shane

Chapter Eleven - Beth






I would like to thank my family for their patience while I wrote this book. I would also like to express my gratitude to the many friends who saw me through this book; to all those who provided support, talked things over, gave perspective, and assisted in beta reading.

I would like to thank Randi Gause, my editor, for her encouragement and insights. A special thanks to Melissa Newell – for that lollipop moment.






"Hey, bartender!" Some guy calls behind me, while I am tendering my last order.

As I turn, I catch my favorite blonde sitting by herself, waiting patiently for her order. Her martini is next on my list of orders to make.

"Bartender!" The same guy calls out again, trying to get my attention. Wiping off my hands on a fresh white rag, I take a good look at the Average Joe wearing a yellow button-up with an orange Manchester United shirt underneath.

Who dresses like that?

I toss the towel on the bar and let out a breath, ignoring the Average Joe. In my book, an Average Joe is a guy who lets his girlfriend dress him.

I nod to him, letting him know I will be right there, but at the moment I am beginning to shake a mixture of vodka, vermouth, and olive juice for the exquisite young blonde in front of me. She's been here every Friday for a month and tips well, so it's worth it. Plus she never gets drunk. She will drink two of these, slowly with her defined, luscious lips, and that will be it. Usually she comes in with a brunette, but right now she's alone and I am more than happy to keep her company as long as I can.

This shy number is twirling a strand of hair, peering up at me every few moments. Inwardly, I am smiling at her. If I were right in the head, I'd buy her a drink, ask her some mundane questions including her number, then find a way to get her back to my house, in my bed, so I can be the one biting on those tasty looking lips of hers.

But I can't.

The thought of only getting one night with her rubs me the wrong way. I would need more than one night to fill my curiosity. To be honest, she's not the type I usually go for.

This precious looking thing has razor-green eyes, that stand out from her long blonde hair pulled back in a sideways braid that flows all the way down the opposite side of her neck, hiding a necklace down the front of her turquoise shirt. She is enchanting, for a human.

I place the martini in front of her. "Here you go," my voice sounds more rigid than intended. Sometimes I wish I were a regular human, not having to worry about their race finding out about me and my kind, but as it is, I'm not and I can't, and I may despise them a little because of it. Especially right now.

"Thanks," she practically whispers her reply while pulling a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"Hey, bartender!" The Average Joe guy calls rudely once more. Ignoring him, I rub my hands tightly against my white rag. I know he’s frustrated, and I don't have to look back to know that his girlfriend has walked up next to him and is complaining about my slow service. Most girls don’t get on my nerves, but this one is at the top of my list tonight. I want to stuff her mouth with my dirty gym sock kept in place with some duct tape, but I’ll just have to settle with putting a rotten taste in her mouth she won’t be able to get out for a week.

The blonde is sliding the olive off her toothpick with her teeth very slowly. Yeah, she knows I'm watching, even though she won't look at me. I inwardly groan as I force myself to tend my next customer.

I head toward the Average Joe and his spandex clad girlfriend. She's wearing a fedora over her mangy, dirty blonde hair. Her makeup is screaming Clockwork Orange fan and I am holding in the chastising words that she needs to hear: We like them classy not trashy.

The Average Joe orders Slippery Nipples for his girlfriend and her friends. Then his girlfriend yells into his ear, loud enough for me to hear the entire order: one Chardonnay, Sex On the Beach, Cape Cod, and two Long Island Ice Teas. He gives me their order and adds on two beers for himself.

After I mix their orders, Joe pays me in cash leaving a dollar for a tip.

"Shane!" A gruff voice calls out.

I cocked my head, looking for the person calling out my name instead of using my title. It's the Douche.

Tonight he’s wearing a dark gray V-neck shirt with a stupid oversized cross around his neck, and his black bushy chest hair tufting out. He got chatty with me one night about a year or so back, and now he thinks we’re brothers, or friends, or whatever he labels me.

My label for him is Douche.

"Yeah?" I say, not really asking what he wants. His pack of friends are flanking him with matching shaved arms, big watches and shirts that don’t fit.

I don't like them.

Grabbing the rag from my black apron, I wipe off my hands. The Douche is looking way too high and mighty. I lift my chin at him. My non-verbal attempt to hear the order I have disdainfully memorized.

The Douche grabs the back of a bar chair in front of him and says a few formal words, as if we are old pals. We're not. I hate small talk. I hate it. Finally he asks for "four Buds and a whiskey." I grab a cup for the whiskey, as the Douche rubbed his hands together as he begins to scan the room. I fill the glass and walk two steps to my left and open the small cooler with the bottles of beer. I pull out four bottles and feel my stomach tighten as I watch the Douche settle his gaze on the blonde bombshell with the dirty martini. He looks her over twice, before rubbing his chin and grins. He moves slowly and steadily toward her, never taking his eyes off his prey. It was only two steps for him but it was like I was watching everything in slow motion.

He stopped millimeters from her shoulder. Too close for my liking and, I know it's not my place to say that, but in all reality, I won’t let someone hurt someone weaker than them. This Douche may get a chance to introduce himself but Hell will freeze over before I let her walk out of here with him.

I grew up with four brothers that were like the scum of the earth. All my nightmares are categorized into two groups: things they did to me, and things they tried to do tried to do to me. I would probably be dead ten times over if it weren’t for my magic. So when I say I can spot a predator a mile away, I’m dead serious.

The Douche sniffed at her. The cute little thing stiffened while folding her hands in her lap. At that, my stomach began burning. He doesn't acknowledge me glowering at him. He leaned closer, "and another of whatever the cutie is drinking."

I look down to see the shy blonde's response. It bothers me that I need to see her give this guy the cold shoulder. And if she doesn't, I have no control over what kind of hell I might unleash.

The blonde shrank back from the Douche. He holds out his hand, "I'm Joel." The blonde takes his hand but her movements are stiff.

"Cory," she says, with a hint of dismissal? He shakes her hand but then something happens, her body goes rigid and she looks at me quickly with something in her eyes.

What the hell does that mean?

She watches me for another second, which is the longest she has ever looked at me. I have no idea what she is looking for in my eyes, or what she’s trying to convey but what I do know is that I can't look away. It doesn't make sense, I feel stuck but not because of a spell, I would know. My brain is currently fighting to break the connection but at the same time, I want to know what that look means and I can't figure it out.

What does she want? Is she asking for my help?

The blonde breaks our connection and turns back to the Douche. The burn in my stomach is making small progress to filling my body with fire. It's in my veins; it's what I am made of. Fire.

If I don't calm down something bad will happen, because the fire raging in me, needs a focus point to release it. Right now my focus point is the Douche, but burning someone alive at a bar may be a little frowned upon. I am not used to feeling whatever it is I am feeling, for anyone, so that also puts me at a disadvantage.

I put the beer bottles on the bar, pop the caps, and push them in front of the Douche, harshly expecting him to take my hint.

He nods at me while tossing a few bills at me to cover the charge. I take in a long breath. I need space but I can't seem to get my feet to move away from the blonde. The sweet looking thing is just perching in her seat, twisting a white opal ring over and over on her middle finger, attempting to hide her feelings while her face is the epitome of calm.

I don't like it at all.

With impeccable timing, her friend with windblown, dark brown hair, chestnut brown eyes, and an "I will bury you in the desert" kind of look, walks in. Tonight she is wearing a tan leather biker jacket, cream colored scoop blouse, and dark jeans that rock an impressive sized belt buckle.

I blew out my cheeks, unaware I had been holding my breath. I tender the Douche’s order but watch in the mirror as the blonde avoids his question about where she is from, by asking a question of her own.

The Douche took an involuntary step back, narrowing his eyes at the blonde with a new look of calculation. The step back allows the brunette to step rudely in front of him and cut off visual communication. He’s mere inches from the brunette’s heated glare.

The brunette looks back at the blonde. "Couldn't wait, sis?"

Sis? Sisters?

They look nothing alike.

"You said five minutes," the blonde answered nonchalantly, lifting her shoulder in a half shrug. "I came early to get us seats."

The fire inside me subsided, knowing the little cutie is safe. Wiping my hands off again, I walk away from what most certainly is about to happen. The Douche is about to cut in and look like an even bigger ass getting between an over-protective sister and the young bombshell.

"Hey, Cory? Why don't you come back with me? I have a seat saved for you back at my table," the Douche says, trying to look around the brunette.

I roll my eyes.

"Really guy? You think my sister would be interested in a guy like you?" I hear the brunette say condescendingly, even though I am halfway down the bar.

"Hey bartender." I hear from the north side of the bar. The bar is a big circle, so I tend to walk around in circles all night which is irritating on any given day, but since the summer time was bringing in more people it was pushing my limited patience. Later I will have to restrain myself from pummeling several young, dumb, pansies when it gets hectic and everyone is shouting for my attention from 360 degrees around me.

I walk to the next patron. He's leaning on an elbow, covering his mouth with his hand. The mammoth sized man has wide shoulders, with high, tight, short black hair. He has a five o'clock shadow and is wearing a red, gray, and black plaid button-down. The guy lost me at the thick leather cuff around his left wrist, adorned with two additional small brown and black bead bracelets that look like mini claws. Nickelback poser.

"What can I get you?"

Before he answers I hear the Douche on the south side of the bar yell, "Your smart mouth is about to get you in a world of hurt, girly." I search the back door hoping the bouncers have caught this little interaction. Nope.


The Nickelback poser in front of me has zeroed in on the scene and left me with his twenty dollars in hand. He rounds the corner, and I follow suit, half because I am curious and half because… I have no idea.

The brunette is face to face with the Douche, with her shoulders squared. "Oh yeah, flea bag? You wanna teach me a lesson?"

BOOK: The Carver's Magic
2.41Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

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