**Playing with Fire by R. J. Blaine**
Good Morning,
Everyone! So thrilled to see you all today! I am thrilled to be able to share this
author with you all yet again! A week or two ago I featured a couple of books
from Ms. Baine and have featured several of her works in the past! I always
love getting to find out about new books from this talented author. Please
allow me to re-introduce to the blog R. J. Blaine and her latest release, PLAYING
WITH FIRE … Plus, a GIVEAWAY!
**R. J. BLAINE**
**BIO**
RJ
Blain suffers from a Moleskine journal obsession, a pen fixation, and a
terrible tendency to pun without warning.
In her spare time, she daydreams about being a spy. Her
contingency plan involves tying her best of enemies to spinning wheels and
quoting James Bond villains until satisfied.
To
find out more about Ms. Blaine, please visit:
**PLAYING WITH FIRE**
Publication
date:
January 30th, 2017
Series:
Magical Romantic Comedies #1
Genres:
Adult, Urban Fantasy
**BLURB**
What do you get when you mix
gorgons, an incubus, and the Calamity Queen? Trouble, and lots of it.
For Bailey, catering to the magical is a tough gig on a good
day, but she has few other options. She can either keep spiking drinks with
pixie dust to keep the locals happy, or spend the rest of her
life cleaning up some of the world’s nastiest magical substances.
Years after helping Police Chief Samuel Quinn escape an
unhappy marriage, Bailey is once again entangled in his personal affairs. To
make matters worse, Quinn’s ex-wife is angling for revenge, tossing Bailey
into the deep end along with her sexiest enemy.
Warning: This novel contains excessive humor, action,
excitement, adventure, magic, romance, and bodies. Proceed with caution.
**EXCERPT**
No one in their right mind would ever license me as a private
investigator, but that didn't stop people from coming to me when they needed
something found. Fortunately, I liked my job as the only human barista at Faery
Fortunes Coffee and Book Shop. Most came for a cup of joe and left too buzzed
to read a thing, but who was I to complain? People paid top dollar for their
pixie dust infused latte, and they tipped me well not to judge them.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t so fond of Chief Quinn. When he walked
through the door, bad things usually happened to someone—me. For him to come in
five minutes after opening, long before the sun even thought about rising, he
needed something, and it wasn’t a cup of coffee. Why couldn’t he want coffee? I
could deal with making him a drink, and I’d double his dose of pixie dust to
keep him happy.
I gave the espresso machine a defiant swipe of my cleaning cloth
before stepping to the counter to deal with Manhattan’s Most Wanted Bachelor.
Without my help, he’d still be married, too.
What a way to start the day.
And to think people wondered why I refused to help find anything
for anyone anymore. The reason stood across the counter from me. Chief Samuel
Quinn, aged thirty, hotter than sin, and my heaven and hell rolled together in
one smoking tall, dark, and handsome package, hated me for good reason. It was
his fault, too. He had been the one to ask me for help finding his wife. I had
found her all right, right in the middle of teaching a college stud the nuances
of the reverse cowgirl.
If no one asked me to find something or someone again for the rest
of my life, I’d be a very happy woman.
“Chief Quinn, what a pleasant surprise,” I lied. “Can I get you
something? A dark roast, cream, no sugar, light on the dust?”
Why couldn’t I have been blessed with forgetfulness? I knew my
worst nightmare’s favorite drink, and I had to make it for him first thing in
the morning. Of course I knew it. He came in at least three times a week to
torment me. Screw it. Who was I kidding? Instead of the coffee, he could take
me instead. If I had to put up with the hassle of dealing with him, why couldn’t
I enjoy it, too?
“Cream, no dust, and make it a large, Bailey.”
Alarm bells tinkled in my head. Since when did Chief Quinn address
me by my first name? On a good day, he snapped my last name like he
worried it would contaminate him. “Of course, sir.”
The faster I made his coffee, the sooner he’d go away. I’d love
every second I spent watching him go. In less than a minute, I had his drink
ready, and to lower the risk of him spending any extra time with me, I chirped,
“It’s on me today, Chief Quinn. Have yourself a nice morning.”
If it meant we parted without incident, it’d be well worth the
five bucks.
He saluted me with his cup, flashed a hint of a smile, and walked
out the door. Facing him was hell, but I glimpsed the heavens when he left, and
if my panties hadn’t caught on fire under my jeans, I’d be very, very
surprised.
“You’re drooling, Gardener,” my boss squeaked. The moth faery,
with just enough pixie heritage to dust glitter when she wanted, fluttered over
my shoulder, her tiny arms crossed over her chest. “Reverse cowgirl.”
“Stop reminding me!” I wailed, slumping over the counter. “He
hates me. Worse, all I think about when he struts in is taking off my clothes
and giving him my panties. I think they caught on fire this time, Mary. Why
couldn’t he have had one of his cops find his wife instead?”
“You just want to indulge in some guilt-free fantasizing like
every other hot-blooded American woman in the city.”
“Exactly. This is why no one in their right mind asks me for help.
I ruin everything.”
“Except my coffee, which is a miracle. Now that we’ve had our
daily dose of excitement, can you handle the shop on your own for an hour?
We’ll call it even on the coffee.”
Was she serious? Alone for an hour on a Monday morning forty
minutes before rush hour? If she thought I’d be all right alone, she was
completely cracked. I could already hear her if I dared to complain about my
shift. What could possibly go wrong in an hour? Didn’t I like my job? The list
went on and on and on. I smiled so I wouldn’t cry. “Sure, Mary. I can last an
hour.”
“You’ve gotten better at lying. Your smile didn’t even slip that
time. Try not to die while I’m gone. Good humans are so hard to find.” Mary
zipped out of the shop through the pixie door and dove through the window of an
idling sports car.
Wait.
Sports car? Red, convertible, top up despite the nice summer
morning? I leaned over the counter and squinted. Yep. My boss had just ditched
me for a ride in Chief Quinn’s car. Sometimes life really wasn’t fair.
********
Ten minutes after Mary left, every centaur in the city decided to
hold a convention in the shop. Not a single one of them seemed to notice—or
care—they barely fit through the door. Equine, bovine, and God-only-knew-what
bodies crammed together, waiting for their chance to get a taste of pixie dust
goodness.
I lost track of the number of species, wondering what sort of
idiot decided to call them all centaurs; maybe they got tired of trying to come
up with names for them. By the time the first cat hybrid showed up, I decided
to just skip past questioning my sanity to weary resignation and kept making
coffee.
Since asking a centaur for his species classified as rude, I plastered
my best smile on my face, swallowed my curiosity, and asked, “What can I get
for you, sir?”
“Small latte, extra dust.” He slapped a pair of twenties on the
counter. If he’d wanted B-grade dust, he would’ve dropped a ten and left with
change, so I rang him up for an upgrade to something a bit better. While we
kept all four types of A-grade in stock, we only offered A and A+ to regular
customers.
Without a permit, no one got the best stuff, and I thanked God for
that each and every day. It was only polite; I never knew if the poor bastard
stuck with the portfolio was listening.
“Keep the change, my guardian angel.” While the cat hybrid centaur
thing had a human face, orange and black fur covered his skin, and when he
smiled, he showed his sharp, pointy teeth.
I checked for wings just in case. Stranger things had happened on
shift. “Was my halo showing?” I took his cash, tossed the extra fifteen dollars
into my tip jar, and fetched his drink, handling the tiny vial of A-grade dust
with care. The last thing I needed was to give everyone in the shop a high
they’d remember for years to come.
With a fifteen buck tip and a customer to keep happy, I took
advantage of Mary’s bribe box on the way back to the counter, snagging a catnip
bag. A happy feline mauled no one, including me. “Here you are, sir. Have a
great day.”
With that much pixie dust in his system, if the centaur cat wasn’t
grinning from ear to ear by the time he made it half a block, I’d be shocked.
Of all the legalized recreational drugs, pixie dust brought the high without
the low, impaired so few people no one bothered to test for it, and
single-handedly fought off the weekday blues for those who could afford it.
I sure as hell couldn’t, even if the dust worked for me, which it
didn’t. I balked at a five buck coffee. Twenty-five for a morning hit would
bankrupt me within a month.
The centaurs kept on coming, which in turn lured in the more
curious races, including the faery. I’d never understand why they came to a
shop dedicated to selling pixie dust. The bright-colored blighters wanted one
thing in life: liquid sugar, and lots of it. We kept it by the gallons in the
fridge, and by the time my shift was over, I would need to make more. We even
stocked pure sugar cane for the really adventurous, but we made them sign a
waiver and an agreement to pay for any damages.
On the heels of the traditional faery, all of whom had butterfly,
moth, or dragonfly wings, the bat-winged folk fluttered in. I doubted they
called themselves faery, but with hundreds of different ‘What the hell is that
thing?!’ critters living in the city, could anyone really blame me for
forgetting their proper names?
After the faery stampeded their way in, taking up every bit of available
table space, the cops showed up in search of a little Monday morning cheer.
Most of them were frequent flyers from every station in a five mile radius, and
it really wouldn’t have surprised me if they came because they idolized Chief
Quinn.
At least the faery were easy to serve; one had the bright idea of
bringing her credit card—which was bigger than she was—and paying for them all,
asking for a pitcher and thimbles. I had no idea how the card disappeared into
the faery’s black tank top, but I wisely didn’t ask. I got out the liquid brown
sugar and poured it into a cup, dug out enough thimbles to stock a sewing
store, and left them to their binge.
When I could serve at least fifty in less than two minutes, I
considered it a good day. Unfortunately, at least fifty more people waited for
service. On a good day, a line of ten inspired rage and pissed the customers
off.
None of the cops, straggler centaurs, or other beasties peeped a single
complaint. If I wanted to survive the shift, I’d need to take the methodical,
perfectionist approach. As long as I didn’t screw up an order, I might survive
until Mary showed up. Once she arrived, we could tag team the crowd. She’d take
the orders, I’d fill them, and everything would be okay.
I lasted the full hour, but Mary didn’t show up. Instead, the
first wave of businessmen stormed through the door, and some of them were even
human.
Crap.
Humans were the worst. Delays infuriated them, and I still hadn’t
managed to get rid of all the cops yet. Too busy to cry, I kept on smiling,
faking the good-natured spirit Mary insisted made her coffee and pixie dust
taste better.
“I thought this place hired faery.” The business man glared down
his nose at me, his perfect black suit and white shirt tempting me to chuck the
fresh pot of coffee all over him. “Isn’t your shop called Faery Fortunes? I
came here to see the faeries!”
I pointed at the nearest writhing mass of sparkling winged bodies.
During the throes of their sugar high, some of them had spread dust and
glitter, and I tried not to think of all the health code violations they were
committing on the table. When my shift ended, I’d leave that train wreck for my
boss to clean up; it’d serve her right for abandoning me. “What can I get for
you, sir?”
The businessman stared at the faery, narrowed his eyes, and turned
his attention back to me. “You have pixie dust here?”
“We stock C and better, sir. Our regular brews use B, but we have
all other grades available.” I prayed he wouldn’t ask for the two better
grades. The last thing I needed was the paperwork and having to confirm his
permit.
“Espresso, A+, heavy on the dust.”
I bet the human would take flight before he made it out the door.
I rang his order up and struggled to hide my shock at the amount. I smiled. I
smiled so much it hurt. “That’ll be three hundred and ten dollars, sir.”
“Credit,” he barked, slapping his card on the counter.
I ran his card, handed him the payment terminal, and went to make
his coffee. Anyone else who worked in the store had to wear a mask and gloves
when handling the vials containing the most potent of the pixie dusts, and I
was the only employee certified to handle the best of the best.
Not even my boss could.
Sometimes, immunity was as much of a curse as it was a blessing.
Why couldn’t I drink my cares away like everyone else? Even the time Mary had
shattered an entire vial of A++ dust, I hadn’t felt a damned thing while she
and the rest of my co-workers spent the following six hours giggling over
everything, unable to handle even the simplest of tasks without dissolving into
a laughing fit.
I checked to confirm the transaction had been approved before
measuring out the dust and adding it to his coffee. I offered it to him, my smile
still fixed in place. “Have a great day, sir.”
“I better, seeing how much this garbage cost.”
I already missed the centaurs and the cops. A glance at the clock
informed me I had survived through three hours with no sign of Mary. When she
got back, we’d have words, and unless she had a damned good reason for
abandoning me so she could take a ride with Chief Quinn on the worst Monday
morning shift I’d ever seen, I knew exactly which two words I’d say.
********
My shift should have lasted six hours. The chaos ebbed to a
trickle, but when the pixie sisters should have arrived, the shop remained
quiet, the lull before the lunchtime storm. I considered killing the pair, who
provided most of the shop’s dust and worked the midday hours. No one would miss
Evita and Lea Anne in a city full of bubbly pink pixies, right?
The door bells tinkled, and instead of the tardy duo, I got Chief
Quinn’s former brother-in-law. If I closed the shop really quickly and ran for
the hills, would he go away? Before I could escape, Magnus McGee stepped to the
counter.
Well, crap. At the rate I was going, my face was going to freeze
into a permanent smile. “What can I get for you, sir?”
“Large coffee, black, no dust.”
I loved simple orders. It made maintaining a pleasant demeanor in
the face of a living nightmare so much easier. I fetched his drink, and he slid
a twenty across the counter. I glared at the bill and snatched it up. Why
couldn’t people carry smaller bills instead of decimating the register’s
change?
Better yet, I’d really appreciate it if they started using their
debit and credit cards. Plastic made things nicer for everyone, especially me.
I offered his change by setting it in front of him so I wouldn’t have to touch
him. “Have a nice day, sir.”
McGee took his money, crammed a five into my tip jar, and stared
at me. Instead of leaving like a good little customer, his eyes tracked my
every move, and I contemplated turning a toothpick into a lethal weapon.
Of all the people on Earth, Magnus McGee came third on my list of
those to avoid. His sister came in second.
The polite, professional me took over, and still smiling, I
chirped, “Is there something else I can get for you, sir?”
How about a murder: his. I could do that. I had a spoon within
easy reach. Surely I could kill someone with a spoon. I blamed my bad Monday
morning shift for my inclination towards violence.
“Audrey said you can find anyone or anything. Is that true?”
Oh, God. Why me? Why was the woman I had caught having sex in
Central Park telling her brother about me? Who had told her I’d been the one to
inform her husband—with photographs—of her deed? I really wanted to kill them,
whoever they were. “No, sorry,” I lied.
“She seemed pretty convinced.”
Of course she probably believed I could find anyone or anything
after I caught her cheating on one of the sexiest men alive. The mental image
of Samuel Quinn’s wife and her college stud would never, ever fade. Every time
I thought I could forget, someone had to remind me.
At least I could hide the truth behind the truth. “I’m a vanilla
human, Mr. McGee. Sorry.”
On paper, I was as vanilla as they got, with my only recorded
abnormality—or talent, as they liked to call magical abilities—being my
immunity to pixie dust and a few other magical substances. Sometimes the cops
called me in and paid me a cute little pittance to deal with some of the
nastier substances, including gorgon vomit.
No one wanted that job, especially me, but since a gorgon’s bile
didn’t turn me to stone like it did everyone else…
“That’s not what I heard. I really need your help. You’re good at
finding people who don’t want to be found, right?”
That was one way to put it, but instead of voicing my agreement, I
pulled out my driver’s license and showed it to him. “V for vanilla. I’m
qualified to handle dangerous substances, but that’s it.” Guilt, the type born
of having ruined a man’s marriage, reared its ugly head. “Tell you what. I know
a few people. Give me the info, and I’ll see what they can do. No promises. I’m
not what you’re looking for, but maybe one of my friends knows something.”
I was such a miserable, horrible liar. What friends? What help? I
needed a life, one outside of making coffee and asking how high when the cops
ordered me to jump.
McGee pulled out a slender black cell phone and handed it to me.
“Everything you need to know is on here. I’ll pay seventy-five thousand if you
find him, and an extra twenty-five if you do so within the next forty-eight
hours. Please. I’ll call you tonight, so keep the phone on you.”
I gaped at him. He wanted to pay how much for me to find someone?
Seventy-five thousand was more than twice what I made in a year, and that
included all the buckets of gorgon bile I’d shoveled up so some cop didn’t get
turned to stone trying to do it. Seventy-five thousand meant I could make good
on my never-spoken threats of quitting.
“Oh, and Miss Gardener?”
“What?” I asked, tensing as I waited for the catch. There was
always a catch. I should have known there’d be a catch.
“This talk never happened.”
Of course. I should have known. Someone willing to pay a fortune
for someone to be found wouldn’t want anyone else to know he was looking. I
sighed. “That’s going to make it difficult to ask my friends for help.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be smart or something? Figure it out.” He
turned and headed for the door.
I fumed. “If I were so smart, do you think I’d be working as a
barista in a pixie dust shop?” Why did rich men always insist on ignoring me?
Magnus McGee left without acknowledging my question. “Screw you, too, buddy.
And your sister sucked at the reverse cowgirl, in case you were wondering!”
Ah, well. It was probably for the better he couldn’t hear me. Who
could he need to find so badly he’d pay so much for me to do the work for him?
Had he missed the memo? I found people all right, in the worst positions
possible.
I blinked, and a thought struck me. What if he hadn’t missed the
memo?
Muttering curses, I shoved the black phone into my pocket to deal
with after my hell shift ended.
********
While I could understand the pixie sisters ditching their shift, I
expected better from Branden. The satyr loved coffee and pixie dust more than
life itself, and he worked at Faery Fortunes part-time for the discount. He had
a far better paying job as a desk monkey somewhere, but until now, he’d never
missed a shift. With Mary still a no-show, I was stuck with closing.
If anyone expected me to open in the morning after an
eighteen-hour shift, they’d get an unpleasant surprise. I locked the front
door, flipped the sign, and cleaned up the mess. As soon as I finished, I wrote
Mary a scathing note informing her she could find some other certified barista,
invoked one of the rare New York employee rights laws favoring the workers, and
told her she owed me for all eighteen hours I’d worked solo. In case she had
trouble with the math, I gave her the amount along with a reminder she had
promised to be back within an hour.
I would regret my decision when it came time to pay my rent. Then
again, maybe I wouldn’t. My certification opened doors, and everyone wanted
someone who could handle dangerous substances without a hazmat suit. If I
didn’t mind a life as a high-class janitor, I’d be set. There weren’t a lot of
people who could fall into a vat of gorgon bile and live to tell the tale. I
was one of three in New York City, and the other two were gorgons, powerful
ones who didn’t need to petrify me before crushing me to teeny tiny Bailey
bits.
A little after one in the morning, I trudged home. Thanks to the
late hour, it took four buses, and I staggered to my door in Queens at a little
after three. All in all, I couldn’t complain. It could’ve been worse—a lot
worse. I had run into only one drunk, and he’d been more interested in a leggy
blond, who had enjoyed shocking the shit out of him with her Taser a little too
much.
In the relative safety of my apartment, I flopped on my battered,
flea-market couch and dug out Magnus McGee’s phone. “Who could you possibly
want that you’d pay me so much to hunt him down for you?”
To add a bit of extra icing on my day, the asshole had locked the
phone. I glared at the prompt. “Seriously?”
Blocking the info behind a passcode meant he either wanted a
little revenge or meant for me to earn my keep. Fine. Two could play at his
game, and a four-digit passcode wouldn’t take too long to hack, especially if I
pulled out all the stops. First, I’d try random bullshit luck. I’d save the
hocus pocus for later, when I was frustrated enough I wouldn’t care if I broke
the phone.
I took a few minutes to test the device to make sure it was the
real deal. A few swipes of the screen brought up the expected menus, and I even
turned on the flash out of curiosity. Maybe after I got paid for the work, I’d
buy my very own cell phone. I was probably one of ten people in the entire city
without one.
It took me until five after six to brute force my way in. The
device clicked, the screen flashed, and it displayed a list of icons showing
one missed call. It also clicked and gave an electronic buzz. Before I could do
more than suck in a startled breath at the unexpected sound, the device
detonated. A cloud of vapor, dust, and glass shards burst in my face. The sharp
bite of shrapnel tore into my skin, and my eyes burned with the fires of hell.
With tears streaming down my cheeks and blinding me, I staggered
to my bathroom to flush my eyes. I cursed every painful moment I spent
splashing my face with water. When I could finally see again, reddish droplets
stained my white sink and had splattered on my mirror. I squinted to make out
my reflection. The whites of my eyes had turned an angry red, but by some
miracle I refused to question, none of the shards had cut me anywhere
important. Being blinded would’ve really put a damper on my day.
I picked out the fragments with tweezers. It was a good thing I
hadn’t started life all that pretty, as my new collections of scars would
ensure no man looked my way twice. At least I didn’t think I needed any
stitches.
Who the hell turned a phone into a miniature bomb? Magnus McGee,
apparently. The dust gave my skin and clothes a greenish cast, and after a few
exploratory sniffs of my shirt, I picked up a faint trace of wet earth.
Gorgon dust.
No one in their right mind made the stuff, not even gorgons. Not
only could it turn its victims into stone, they ran a chance of becoming a
gorgon, too. The authorities refused to give a percentage on how many were
turned, but I suspected it was high, as handling the stuff required a top-level
permit, one I possessed thanks to my immunity.
The truly insane dosed themselves with it on purpose. McGee hadn’t
just tried to kill me. He had meant to make me a monster—one who’d never be
able to look anyone in the eyes ever again.
“That son of a bitch!” Had I been anyone else, I would have been
transformed into a statue, easy pickings for anyone who came into my apartment.
Petrifying someone was a great way to get rid of them—or cart them off before
reversing the petrification with neutralizer. Spitting mad, I went to work
purifying my apartment, tears pricking my eyes. It hadn’t been my fault
McGee’s sister had cheated on her husband. What kind of idiot left someone like
Chief Quinn for a college kid?
Audrey McGee, apparently.
At least I had everything I needed to neutralize the gorgon dust
thanks to working with the police. They provided me with a new batch of
neutralizer every call, and I kept every last pinch of it. After mixing the
powder with some water, I’d be able to spritz everything and vacuum the pale
residue when it was dry.
Two hours and one thoroughly cleaned apartment later, I collapsed
into bed and dreamed of wringing Magnus McGee’s scrawny little neck.
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