Billionaires and Bodybags: Forbidden Fangs, Book 1 Read online

  Billionaires and Bodybags

  Forbidden Fangs, Book 1

  Keira Blackwood

  Liza Street

  Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  The Forbidden Series

  About Keira and Liza

  Paranormal Chick Lit

  Billionaires and Bodybags: A Paranormal Chick Lit Novel

  Forbidden Fangs, Book 1

  Copyright © 2020 Keira Blackwood & Liza Street

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any actual persons, places, or events is coincidental. All characters in this story are at least 18 years of age or older.

  1

  Marla

  My life was a joke, and I was the only one laughing. That sounded like a bad thing, but it wasn’t, at least not completely.

  I stood behind the thick glass of my tattoo shop’s display window in the sunlight. The heat of the winter sun warmed my skin and soaked into my body, making me feel like a lizard.

  And I didn’t burn.

  For five years—the entirety of my immortal life—I’d been stuck in a dungeon. I thought I’d never see the surface of the earth again. And I’d been certain my days in the sun were toast—or that they’d turn me into toast. But neither was true.

  I ran my fingers across the bracelet that allowed this magical miracle. At a glance, it wasn’t anything special, just a braid of rainbow embroidery thread like I used to trade with my besties in grade school.

  Now, I had two new best friends, and they each had a bracelet like this one. This sunlight charm was by far my favorite accessory.

  Daylight warmed my body, but fresh blood was even better.

  I knew biting people was gross, monstrous even. That didn’t change the fact that I required the crimson goodness to survive. And my stomach was howling with hunger, my mouth salivating with thirst.

  A shadow crossed over my window, and the door opened.

  For a hot second that felt like an eternity, my insides clenched the same way they did every time someone stepped through that door. Even though it was daylight, and I knew I’d feel his closeness in my unbeating heart, I expected everyone I encountered to be him. My sire. The man my sisters and I called the Collector.

  The man who entered was not my sire. He had human-colored skin instead of gray, no protruding fangs, and he smelled like motor oil instead of mint ointment. If I wasn’t mistaken, there was something wild about him. When shifters entered a room, the air around them pricked alive like it did when lightning was about to strike. If the air wasn’t enough of a clue, he was big and bulky in the way shifters always were. Lucky bastards had the best genes.

  He took in the parlor, and I tried to see it through a stranger’s eyes. The room was on the large side, spanning the building front to back. Much more room than I needed as a single artist. But who knows, maybe the business would grow and more artists would join me? The main colors were red and black. Maybe a little on-the-nose because I was a vampire and all, but it felt edgy and fun. A line of photos took up one wall, each in a red frame which popped against the black paint. I’d gone for an eclectic, vintage style and I’d even found one of those weird cat clocks with the moving eyes.

  After moving his gaze over the décor, the shifter turned to me.

  “Welcome to Forbidden Fangs,” I said. “I’m Marla.”

  “Joe.” He shrugged out of his coat and offered me his hand.

  I accepted and we shook.

  “What damage are you looking for? Ink or piercing?” I pointed to the tribal tattoo on one of my arms and then to my eyebrow piercing to emphasize each option.

  “Ink,” he said. “Looking for someone who can...fix.”

  Fix. Given how uncomfortable he looked, it was one of two issues. Either Joe had drunkenly picked something off the wall from a mall artist, came to, and realized it wasn’t half as cool as he thought it was, or he was looking to eradicate a proclamation of love to an ex he now hated.

  “All the custom pieces I’ve completed since opening are up here.” I showed him the wall of smiling faces and inflamed skin.

  He poked one of the photos. “What happened here?”

  I looked closer to see which he was referring to. It was a couple with matching tattoos. The woman was beaming, the man scowling.

  “That’s a local couple,” I said.

  “And the ink? It looks like a ridiculously realistic depiction of a...skunk riding a white tiger?” Joe looked confused.

  “Thank you,” I said. “That’s exactly what they asked for. Except it’s a honey badger, not a skunk.”

  “Never heard of it,” he said. “Shift—” He cut his word short, clearly not sure if he should mention the whole shifter thing.

  And then he gave me a good sniff. I shivered. Living in a town brimming with shifters, I should have gotten used to the whole smelling people thing, but I hadn’t.

  “I’m not a shifter,” I said. “But yes, they are.”

  He nodded. “Figured it was a fucked-up kink thing.”

  I shrugged. “To each her own.”

  He leaned in again, to get another creepy whiff. And I took a step back, because no thank you.

  “What are you?” he asked.

  “An artist,” I said, eager to cut off the line of questioning. He wanted to know what kind of supernatural creature I was. But I wasn’t telling. So far, the shifters in town hadn’t figured me out, and I wanted to keep it that way. “Want to show me what you need fixed?”

  Joe turned around and lifted off his shirt, revealing his wide shoulders—shoulders decorated with far worse ink than I’d imagined. I took pride in my ability not to laugh at people. This was a safe space where it was appropriate for people to bare whatever body parts they wanted inked or pierced, judgment free. But this—this was pushing my limits of professional decorum.

  Douchecanoe was scrawled in pretty cursive across his shoulders, with connected swirls reaching halfway down his back.

  “Don’t laugh,” he said. “Please don’t laugh.”

  To my credit, I kept my voice completely flat as I said, “I’m not laughing.”

  And I wasn’t. Not on the outside, at least.

  “It was supposed to be my girlfriend’s name. I don’t want to talk about it,” he mumbled. Then he turned to face me. “Can you fix it?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Do you know what you want it to be?”

  “Anything,” he said. “Well, not the badger riding the tiger thing.”

  “Custom work,” I said. “I don’t repeat what I’ve drawn for another.”

  “So do I lie on a table, or—”

  He thought we were actually going to start now, and I’d just go wild with the tattoo gun? I was game for a challenge, but I didn’t know this guy’s aesthetic.

  “Usually I have a client look through the books, get an idea of what you like and
don’t like. Then I do some sketches, we schedule you an appointment, and—”

  “I cannot walk out of this shop with this shit on my back. I’m seeing a new woman, and as much as I don’t want to tell you about this tattoo, having to explain it to her is a hell of a lot worse.”

  “Okay then.”

  He picked a chair and lay face down. “Really, anything’s great.”

  I nodded, sat down on the stool beside him, and prepped my tray.

  “I’ll need a deposit to start.”

  He handed me his card. “Charge whatever, just fix it.”

  I ran the card, then got my gun ready. “This is more than a day’s work,” I said. “We can only do so much before your body goes into shock. So I’ll give you three hours, then you’ll come back on another day and we’ll do some more.”

  “But—”

  “No arguments,” I said, starting the needle in the center of his back. “I promise to make it illegible before you walk out of here today.”

  I closed my eyes and let the needle move me. As a human, I’d been a painter. I let the brush lead me. It wasn’t a conscious thing, but a state of flowing tranquility. Since I became a vampire, it was the same with the needle. I didn’t need to know what I was going to paint, or watch that I was doing it right. My hands knew, and the art led the process.

  I ignored the luring song of Joe’s pulse, and the growling response of my aching, empty stomach.

  Joe hissed.

  My eyes shot open, and I pulled my tattoo gun back.

  “Motherfucker.” The muscles in his back flexed and he tucked his arms up under him.

  “Sharp spot?” I asked, and wiped his back. The temptation to lick the blood off his skin was real. “We don’t have to—”

  “No. It’s not you. It’s—” He nodded with his head to the end of the chair. “What the hell is that?”

  As far as I could see, he was gesturing at nothing. I rolled my chair back and leaned down to peer under his table.

  A set of golden eyes met my gaze, one squinted, one wide in the center of a mass of scraggly black fur. “Oh, that’s just His Lordship King Snugglebumpkins,” I said.

  “You named that monster?”

  “No way.” I gave my monster kitty some scritches under the chin. “He named himself. His Lordship would never allow anyone to choose his path or anything about his life for him. That’s why we get along so well.”

  Joe was still staring at the edge of the table. “Sure,” he said, in a tone that made it clear he thought I was nuts. “But it might be good for business not to let hellbeasts roam the floor.”

  “He won’t hurt anyone,” I said.

  Joe lifted a hand for me to see. There was barely a scratch.

  “Psh, that’s nothing,” I told him. “I thought you were a big, tough shifter. Are you really afraid of a little kitty cat?”

  “That thing is not little. Whether or not it’s a cat is debatable. It has demon eyes.”

  I shook my head at the ridiculousness of this giant man being afraid of a cat. “Lie down or I can’t finish.”

  Joe grumbled but did as I said, flinching every so often when His Lordship touched one of his hands. And I worked on outlining just enough of what was turning out to be a pretty amazing gnarled gothic tree to turn “douchecanoe” into “do no.” It would make a nice “Do No Harm” when I was done, and Joe would take it and he would like it. That or he’d live with half a tree on top of a douchecanoe.

  And I was well on my way to surviving the encounter without sinking my teeth into Joe’s jugular, so it was a win for sure.

  2

  Grayson

  Forbidden, Kentucky was—and there was no other word for it—cute. The cute factor was surprising given that the Forbidden Pack was known for smacking down any shifter threat. But cute was exactly what I needed. Cute would make me more money.

  I was safe from the pack because I wasn’t settling down here, and I’d inform the alpha of my arrival as soon as it was convenient.

  Right now was not convenient. Right now, I needed coffee. I’d started driving from Tennessee at the ass-crack of dawn, and although in theory I appreciated getting a jump on the morning, I hadn’t built up my business so I could be a slave to the clock. I had all the money I needed now, so I liked to sleep in.

  I pulled my Mercedes to a parking spot at the side of the street in front of a cafe. The building was old brick, with a big window and a wooden sign. Forbidden Bean. Quaint. Cute. This town would be a money-maker and I would barely need to lift a finger.

  I got out of the car and pulled on my suit jacket. I should’ve maybe been wearing a coat, given that it was January, but as a shifter I wasn’t bothered by the cold. Long sleeves were my only acknowledgment that the cold existed. After checking that my money clip was nestled in my jacket pocket, I palmed my keys and strode into Forbidden Bean.

  A rush of coffee-scented air surrounded me, soaking into my pores. It was almost as if I could get a hit of caffeine just by standing in this cozy little shop. Better yet, there wasn’t a line at the counter—I must’ve missed the rush.

  Forbidden Bean had the same feel of the rest of the town. It was the kind of place hipsters wished they knew about. It was unpretentious and understated in charm. The details made all the difference, from the little potted plants outside the storefronts to the decorative metal benches set in little gardens along the road for visitors to stop and take a seat.

  It was the kind of town where everything was historically preserved and well cared for. The kind where you knew the next-door neighbor would gladly let you borrow a cup of sugar or bake you a pie as a friendly hello.

  I was already falling in love with Forbidden, and I hadn’t even seen the bed and breakfast yet.

  “Hi, there,” a perky kid said from behind the counter. He smelled human, but it was hard to tell with the aromas of coffee and baked goods swirling around. He blew a curl of blond hair dangling in front of his eyes and said, “What can I get you?”

  “A large coffee, please,” I said. “Black.”

  “On it. That’ll be four fifty-five.”

  As I reached for my money clip, I spied a row of what looked like plush turds with eyes and mouths. “What the hell are those?”

  The kid laughed. “I know, they look like little shits, huh? They’re supposed to be coffee beans.”

  Terrible design, and yet...my nephew required a plush toy from every place I visited. I grinned fondly at the thought of his reaction to a plush turd, and then smirked at the thought of my sister’s reaction.

  “I’ll take one,” I said.

  The kid gaped in surprise. “Really? You’re the first person to actually buy one.”

  “My nephew collects stuff like this. So yeah. I’ll take a big one.”

  “Okay man, if you’re sure.”

  “I am.”

  “Would you like me to put the shit in a gift bag, sir?” He snickered at his own joke.

  “That would be great, thank you.”

  I wandered around while he bagged the plush toy. The cafe had three tables, all of them empty, but already two groups of people were starting toward the café. I’d arrived at the perfect time.

  Local photography was framed on the wall—sights of historical significance, from what I could guess. One showed two images in the same frame, separated by matting. The first image showed a rundown building that looked like something I’d find in a low-budget horror flick—broken windows, crumbling bricks and siding, a porch that sagged at one end, and the kind of neglected yard that looked like it could swallow entire cars. The image next to it showed what had to be the same building, only it had been completely restored. The porch was level and sported planter boxes, the paint was crisp and bright, the yard expertly landscaped. A sign sat out front, but I didn’t need the sign to know what I was looking at.

  This was the Forbidden B&B. It’s where I would be staying during my time here in Forbidden, and it was the soon-to-be-beneficiary of my
exciting business proposition.

  Three weeks ago, one of my assistants had shown me a picture of the Forbidden B&B. She’d come across it while watching her favorite video blog, Sophie Tells it Like it Is. Apparently the vlog host and the owner of the B&B were close, and they’d joined together for an episode. My assistant had been immediately charmed and had floated the idea past me as a potential new venture.

  And thus, a dream was born.

  The kid ran my card and slid it across the counter toward me. “Here you are, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  Just then, the door to the cafe swung open and a group of women walked in, shivering from the cold. A dark shape darted in along with them, and one of them shrieked. “Rat!”

  I’d never seen a rat that huge. The animal was the size of a young Komodo dragon.

  “It’s not a rat,” the kid said. “It’s Marla’s cat—whoa!”

  The cat streaked through the room, leaped onto the counter, and batted my credit card down to the other side. I leaned forward in time to see it snatch the card with its mouth in mid-air before skidding on its hind feet and racing back around the counter toward the still-open door.

  “Close the door!” I shouted, running after the cat.

  The woman closest to the door was fast, but not fast enough. The cat just barely got outside, and by the time I reached the door, I had to skid to a halt to avoid running into it.

  “Sir, your turd and your coffee!” the kid shouted.

  “Turd?” one of the women said to her friends.

  Cursing, I ran back for the bag and my cup. “Whose cat did you say that is?”

  “Marla’s,” the kid said. “She owns the tattoo shop on Red Delicious, two streets up.”