Ice and Timmy - Granite County - has been whispering in my ear. I'm going to keep writing what they're saying until they stop. (uneditied)
“And don’t come
back!”
The owner hadn’t appreciated Timmy lurking about in
the doorway of his house and chased him away. The situation could have been
worse if He had found him. Timmy’s intuition screamed that He was near.
Avoiding the glow from the streetlights, Timmy
sprinted down the sidewalk and crossed the deserted street. To avoid He, Timmy’s only
chance was to move fast enough to keep his freedom.
Timmy spun to the right, thinking the tall brick
buildings of the old industrial section of town a good place to fade into the
interior of the city. A place where people slept in boxes and were invisible to
the public while living in plain sight. Maybe not invisible but considered less
human and not worth more than a sniff of disapproval.
Pitch black bled out in front of Timmy and he hit a
wall. The blow tore his breath away, stars burst in front of his eyes, and he
sailed back onto the unyielding concrete.
Timmy curled up into a ball of misery, bracing
himself for the agony to come.
The roar of an engine and tires scraping against asphalt grew loader until they stopped behind him. A door
opened.
“Oh shit, Timmy.” Dom’s blessed voice brought Timmy
to tears.
He blinked to clear his eyes and looked up. A
figure stood before him, black blending in with the shadowed streets. A hood
covering the person’s face.
Timmy scrambled backwards, ignoring the grit tearing up his palms, until he was pressed against someone’s legs and their
hands rested on his shoulders.
“Who are you?” Domonic demanded.
Dom’s presence gave Timmy hope. Maybe He would go away.
Yeah, and moose could learn to fly.
Another set of legs appeared next to Timmy. He
looked up to find Bishop Clark standing next to Dom.
“Welcome to Granite City, Mr. Ice.” Bishop stated.
The man reached up and pushed back the hood of his
sweatshirt. Silver eyes reflected in the light from the truck’s open door.
Timmy froze.
* * * *
Ice nodded,
acknowledging Mr. Saint’s statement while watching the cowering man before him.
The man’s fear
grated on his nerves, inciting a reaction to find the person who terrorized
him. A taste, Ice’s style, would show the perp the error of his ways.
The man tempted Ice
to touch his smooth, caramel colored skin, trace the outline of his wide nose,
and bring a sparkle to the man’s dark, dark eyes. Was his straight black hair,
that reached his shoulders, as soft as it looked? Ice wanted to find out which
part of the Northern reaches of the continent bespoke the man’s ethnic
appearance.
Their gazes met and
locked. Ice let the moment happen as it was destined by fate. He had learned
long ago that fighting what was supposed to be, a folly.
If he had it in him
to feel mercy or empathy, he would have let the moment pass. He would have let
the man go on with his life, free of his presence. But there were reasons he
was called Ice. Destiny had spoken, and
for the first time he wanted more than a brief fuck.
The bottom line. The
little guy intrigued him.
Very excited to read more of Ice
ReplyDeleteHey Bellann. Any more books getting ready to come out soon? I miss reading your books and wonder if your doing okay.
ReplyDeleteNot at this time.
Delete