A Taste of Shine (A Trick of the Light Book 1) Read online

  A TASTE OF SHINE

  A Trick of the Light Duet - Book One

  ADDISON CAIN

  Blushing Books

  ©2018 by Blushing Books® and Addison Cain

  All rights reserved.

  No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Blushing Books®,

  a subsidiary of

  ABCD Graphics and Design

  977 Seminole Trail #233

  Charlottesville, VA 22901

  The trademark Blushing Books®

  is registered in the US Patent and Trademark Office.

  Addison Cain

  A Taste of Shine

  EBook ISBN: 978-1-61258-849-0

  Cover Art by ABCD Graphics & Design

  This book contains fantasy themes appropriate for mature readers only. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual sexual activity.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Author’s Note

  Branded Captive

  Addison Cain

  EBook Offer

  Blushing Books Newsletter

  Blushing Books

  Prologue

  “God Damnit!”

  Boot skidding down unpaved rocky incline, Charlie lost control of the derelict Ford the bounty hunter had been pushing uphill for three fucking hours. The jalopy rolled back a good two feet, bodily dragging the cursing, sweaty figure trying to push it over another blasted hill. Three miles Charlie had struggled with that damn car, hoping the faded wooden sign pointing to civilization an hour back was accurate.

  With Charlie’s luck, it would not be surprising to find the entire town of Gap Mills long ago leveled by some tornado, burned to the ground, or just plain abandoned.

  Days of frantic travel, so damn close to the finish line, and the blue Ford’s guts had gone out with a mighty lurch and a rolling plume of smoke. That engine was a goner, and if Charlie had the choice, that whole goddamn car would have been set to flame. Burned it down to a twisted metal shell, and moved on with life.

  That wasn’t an option. Not with the cargo inside.

  Grinding teeth until an aching jaw matched the sour mood, Charlie did what had to be done—pushed that fucking car through the foothills, and up a twisting, hilly road named Devil’s Hallow, certain Lucifer himself was trying to meddle in human affairs.

  Charlie spit on the devil. Was worked up into such a mood that had the red-skinned, forked tail, horned-one popped into existence at that moment, Charlie would’ve landed a good swing on Satan’s smirking mouth.

  Settling for kicking the chuckling cargo right in the ass, Charlie found some satisfaction in the grunt and squeal that followed.

  Far better than the convict’s stifled mockery and laughter. Asshole.

  Chained, gagged, and blindfolded, a bounty evil through and through lay sprawled across the Ford’s backseat—a bastard Charlie looked particularly forward to watching fry strapped down to Sing Sing’s infamous electric chair. Old Sparky would light up bright as a goddamn chandelier. Charlie wouldn’t even mind the stink of burning flesh… not so long as the corpse smoking and lurching on that throne was Ronnie Pearson.

  Murderer, rapist, all around piece of shit.

  Imagining the squeals Ronnie would make when he finally had to pay for what he did thoroughly motivated the bounty hunter to soldier on. Fuck, Charlie would push that damn car all the way to New York if that’s what it took.

  There was one saving grace in this fucked up situation; though it was winter, it wasn’t snowing.

  Biting wind soothed a laboring body. Clouds of breath steaming from flared nostrils, sweat running through the dirt on Charlie’s face was a vision of determination.

  A vision of determination who was greatly in need of a bath.

  Grunting when the car caught just before the crest of the steepest slope yet, Charlie gave it one last Herculean effort. It was just enough to ease the car over the slope.

  Panting, thirsty, surly, and worn out, Charlie looked up the road.

  Jesus, there were more hills. More of this muddy slice of hell.

  Prayer had never been so tempting.

  And perhaps God was watching, or maybe it was the devil after all. Because the undeniable rumble of an approaching vehicle sounded on the road behind. Peering back, Charlie pulled the brim of an old hat low, and automatically reached for the rifle hanging from an aching shoulder.

  The cloud of dirt approaching in the distance potentially spelled trouble.

  Missing things got a man dead quick in Charlie’s line of work.

  Or maybe it was nothing.

  Vehicles speeding fast enough to kick up that kind of dust didn’t usually stop for strangers, nor were country boys quite as friendly as folks might expect. So, when a rusty truck came to a slow rolling stop, Charlie’s glare was less than friendly.

  There was good goddamn reason to be wary. It wasn’t the pale eyes of the brawny passenger, narrowed as they ran the length of Charlie’s muddied frame. It wasn’t the scarred knuckles flexing where the man’s arm rested out the window.

  It was the smell.

  Moonshine. Charlie knew that corn stink. Loved it, in fact.

  Gloved fingers rising to the low brim, Charlie offered one silent nod—all the while, red rimmed eyes measured what mattered and what didn’t. The greater threat wasn’t the bruiser riding shotgun.

  It was the man holding a double barrel shotgun tucked under his arm. Tall as a tree and dirty as a pig, a burly man glared down from the truck’s bed. Unlike the men in the cab, the giant was well aware of the hidden rifle Charlie’s trigger finger kissed.

  Deadpan, Charlie broke the silence. Voice hoarse and distorted with disuse. “Afternoon...”

  A wordless, grunted reply was offered—not from the man looming with the firearm, but from the bruiser with his arm hanging out the passenger window. A tense stretch of silence, and the unsmiling stranger smoothly rumbled, “Where you headed to?”

  Scraping words from a dry throat, Charlie croaked, “Sign a few miles back pointed to Gap Mills.”

  Pursing his lips, the stranger swung the toothpick between his lips from the left side of his mouth to the right. Chewing that sliver of wood, he turned to his driver. “Eli, help him push the car.”

  The open annoyance on the boy’s face told the story clear as day. Helping a road-worn stranger wasn’t exactly appealing to the youth. Even so, Eli did as he was told, climbing out of the cab so the broad shouldered male might scoot towards the wheel.

  Without another glance or word exchanged, the truck took off, kicking up dust right in Charlie’s face.

  Sauntering through the cloud, Eli held his hand out friendly-like. “I’m Eli Emerson. My cousin, Matthew, owns the roadhouse up the way.”

  A roadhouse would do. “I’ll need a car.”

  The kid gave a shrug. “You’ll have to talk to Matthew.”

  Eyeballing the boy up close, Charlie realized Eli
wasn’t a kid, exactly. He was something nearer a man, but a bit too pretty for his own good. “Charlie.”

  Greeting over, the boy moved straight towards the back of the car. Together they pushed that damn Ford, Eli chattering up a storm, asking questions that went unanswered, pouring out compliments on the shiny blue car.

  Even with assistance, it was another hour of hard labor before the creaking roadhouse’s sign came into sight. It was just what you’d expect from a country pit stop—a simple two story building, everything set in vacant, surrounding woods. Faded tin signs advertising motor oil, cigarettes and Coca-Cola splashed a little color against wooden slats. Mismatched chairs graced the porch, one of them full of the hospitable passenger from the truck, sipping on a steaming mug.

  Even seated, it was clear Matthew Emerson was a big fellow. A weathered version of his pretty-boy cousin. Eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat, the single porch light flickering above offered little more to peruse beyond the rigid set of an unfriendly jaw three days past the need of a shave.

  Leaving the car and its precious hidden cargo, Charlie walked the dusty yard and marched up the porch steps.

  “Matthew Emerson—” Charlie’s throaty speech, an unpretty thing, grated like the after effects of some great sickness, “—I have a proposition for you.”

  Head tipped back just enough to meet the beady stare of the much smaller stranger, Matthew took a close look at the vagabond caught on his road. Charlie held that gaze.

  Ever so slightly pushing one’s jaw forward, the bounty hunter knew how to fake an underbite. Squinting creased the skin making one appear older. And that was only the beginning. Sweat and dirt; it was miraculous what the combination could conceal. And boy was Charlie one sweaty, dirty mess at the moment.

  Like with most new acquaintances, Matthew’s pale eyes went straight to the nasty scar bisecting Charlie’s lower lip. A mark carried since childhood.

  Taking a sip of coffee, Matthew offered an unimpressed, “Proposition, hum? You come out here to talk business?”

  It wasn’t hard to grasp what the man implied. West Virginia was dirt poor, and with prohibition going strong, smart men found other ways to pull a profit—illegal ways. Brewing and selling were as common as farming and coal mining. The Emersons were moonshiners.

  “I have no interest in your liquor.” A borderline sneer pulled at Charlie’s scar. “What I have is cargo I need to transport immediately. Ain’t got time to wait on getting that engine fixed.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Matthew surveyed the stranger on his porch with an unimpressed sneer. “And what do you want me to do about it?”

  “I’ll pay you five hundred dollars for a three-day ride, leaving now.”

  His snort could have been laughter if the man had cracked a smile. “What’s in the car?”

  There was no point in lying. “A convict on his way to the electric chair.”

  Matthew ever so slightly cocked his head, a sign that maybe he was intrigued... or perhaps offended. Once he spoke, it was clear the expression implied neither; he was simply dismissive. “Ain’t got no one to drive you.”

  Charlie didn’t waver, only deepened a growl. “Find someone.”

  Colorless eyes blazed so hard Charlie was sure fiercer men had scuttled back like kicked dogs, but that wasn’t Charlie’s way. Matthew was just a man; a man who didn’t know jack shit about why Ronnie Pearson needed to fry. “The bounty I’m carrying is a wanted criminal—a criminal who killed my brother and harmed my mama. There is nothing that’ll stand in my way of dragging him to justice.”

  Another disgruntled throat noise and Matthew glanced to the distant Ford.

  Charlie drove the point home. “I don’t care if you’re a decent man or a bad one. You got family. I take it you understand my position.”

  A moment of quiet stretched before Matthew sipped his coffee and coarsely offered, “One night’s shelter, then you and your friend will be on your way. Lotta men round these parts won’t take too kindly to your type, if you understand my meanin’.”

  It was better than nothing. Tipping that dusty hat, Charlie shuffled back to the blue Ford to drag out the psychopath strapped down across the back.

  Feeling Matthew Emerson measure even the slightest movement, Charlie managed the much taller chained prisoner, yanking the jackass along—handling the convict well when the bastard played his game of being difficult and stumbling on purpose.

  At their approach, the head of the Emerson family stood and held the screen door open. Once inside, after taking in all the empty tables with their checkered tablecloths and cheap spindle chairs, Charlie chose a seat away from the familiar occupant at that bar and the pretty waitress standing behind the counter.

  The scruffy giant bellowed, “What the hell is this?”

  Matthew waved him off. “They stay one night and then they go.” After a short pause, he added, “Alice, get them some food.”

  The youngest, Eli, muttered to himself as he took in the chains on the convict and the rifle on the stranger. “A real life bounty hunter, here in Monroe.”

  Charlie looked towards the boy, eyes narrowed. “You ain’t seen me, hear?”

  Eli blushed, stammering an embarrassed, “Yes, sir,” which suited Charlie just fine.

  Lighting a cigar, Matthew addressed the boy. “Eli, you head on home.”

  Obviously eager to be included, Eli argued. Fists clenched at his sides. “I’ll stay.”

  “Git.” The one word, spoken softly, was enough.

  With a snort, the grousing youth left as ordered.

  Behind the bar, the raven-haired waitress frowned through the process of readying two bowls of unheated canned soup. From the way Matthew watched her before settling his eyes right back on Charlie, it was apparent that was his girl, and any slight on the woman would spell trouble.

  Glancing only long enough to see what Alice was made of, Charlie found the woman to be stunning, possessing unfashionably long hair and dressed smart—a little too smart for a lady working a greasy spoon.

  When she plopped down the food, Charlie went through the expected motions, eyes respectfully glued to the slop and nothing else. “Much appreciated, ma’am.”

  Without acknowledging the courtesy, the lithe thing went right back to her place behind the counter.

  Checking to assure the prisoner’s blindfold stayed tight, Charlie loosened the saliva saturated gag and grunted, “Supper.”

  The captive’s jaw dropped wide in smug anticipation.

  Beginning the infuriating process of feeding the most hated thing on earth, Charlie droned out the rules. “Rule number one?”

  The prisoner’s voice was a musical thing, seductive and unnerving as it singsonged. “I eat when you tell me to eat.”

  “Rule number two?”

  Pure sadistic glee. “I piss when you tell me to piss.”

  “Rule number three?”

  The prisoner’s lips curved into a poisonous smile. “I fuck up… you cut something off.”

  A gravelly hiss, and Charlie agreed. “And that is my favorite rule.”

  And then Charlie shoveled the rest of the soup between the bastard’s lips, faster and faster. Between slurps and swallows, beyond the distrust the big, dirty bruiser was leveling toward the unlikely pair, the little hairs on the back of Charlie’s neck started to rise.

  Something wasn’t right.

  When was it ever?

  The outdoors went quiet. No birds, no bugs, no nothing.

  Silence was never a good thing.

  Suspicious, Charlie’s eyes flew to Matthew Emerson. The man was standing rigid, staring out the window like he, too, felt something bad.

  Trouble came in a burst of gunfire.

  The front windows shattered, glass flying as Charlie tackled the prisoner to the floor. Determined the convict wouldn’t die quickly from some stray bullet to the brain, Charlie barked, “Cut the goddamn lights!”

  It went dark—Matthew and Nathaniel firing haphazard
ly into the night like fools, Alice screaming where she ducked behind the bar. Bullets ricocheting overhead, Charlie crawled towards the nearest busted window. Using the casement as cover, rifle swinging forward, Charlie let out an audible sigh and scoped the yard. “I ain’t got time for this shit.”

  The tell-tale flash of firing bullets gave away target number one. Methodical, impersonal, Charlie pulled the trigger. One blast, one death. The process repeated, patient and thorough—professional.

  Five men died due to such skill, and silence, once again, came to the yard.

  With the quiet, Charlie stood, ignoring the crunch of glass when stepping over the casement. Bodies were found, examined where they sprawled. Two Charlie recognized, and couldn’t help but snort a laugh when Matthew came bearing a lantern for a closer look.

  Matthew Emerson had a quiet kind of fury. The kind that left his words ice. “They worth any money?”

  Ignoring the temper, the rage radiating from the stoic, Charlie said, “No one gives a shit about men like this. It’s their boss you should be worrying about.”

  Sucking at his teeth, Matthew’s façade slipped just enough that Charlie knew better than to push. “And who might that be?”

  Head cocked, Charlie turned and looked up at a man who could crush bones with one good swing. Bearing no trace of compassion, no interest in helping the Emerson boys’ cause, Charlie explained the cold way of things. “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. Speakin’ of which, I did just kill almost all of the fuckers for you.”

  “You didn’t do it for me.”

  “You seem like a reasonable man—” a flashed smirk, one as mean as Charlie could offer, “—so you must know you’re just one more bootlegger out in the middle of nowhere. I could’ve killed you, the tall fella, and your woman, in three quick shots before you would’ve even blinked… then stolen your truck. We both know that. Not a soul but your dandy cousin would have even known I was here.” Lips pursed, Charlie paused to shrug. “And tracking him down? Wouldn’t even be a challenge.”

  The brute took a threatening step nearer. “I’m not in the mood to play games, son.”