Page 5 of Bewitching Her Monsters
Andfuck me… gray sweatpants.Really?
Of course, he has on the SoCal standard—flip-flops. He’s lucky he’s in temperate, near-coastal Southern California, where it seems to be the footwear of choice, even in winter. He must be close to six-foot-tall, maybe taller. With all that muscle, I assume he has a physical job, or he hits the gym as frequently as I take naps.
Although he wears sandals and exhibits anxiety, he still radiates total dominant alphahole energy.
I’d say he’s in his early thirties, but I would also guess he has had a rough life. Something in his eyes suggests that he’s had his share of grief. And grief recognizes grief. But right now, he looks downright upset.
I wonder why.
A breeze sweeps over me, and a shiver runs up my spine. Inspiration is here.
A scene filters into my mind.
These four have lost someone important recently… maybe a day or so ago. Mr. Alphahole was close to their fifthmissingbuddy. They’re worried they will be targeted next. And they should be worried—
Someone barks out a laugh at the bar and I’m distracted, losing my train of thought. So I move on to the rest of the guys to see if they will inspire me, too.
The man (or should I say beast) next to him looks to be four inches taller and bulkier than Mr. Grumpy. Almost matching his skin tone, his hair is an unusual color that reminds me of light-colored sand. His eyes are fair too—maybe a pale gray?
I wish it wouldn’t be weird for me to go up and see.
His features are bold, and everything about him appears massive. He’s the human equivalent of a tank. But this one has stoic, somber vibes and appears to be made of beautifully sculpted stone compared to the alphahole next to him. I want to crack his calm persona and see what’s underneath that cool exterior.
The third hunk is all that and a side ofoh-damn-me-to-hell-for-what-I’m-thinking. He’s the tallest of the four of them, but not much taller than Mr. Stoic. And if anyone was born with extra muscles, it’s him. He has short black hair and a definitively masculine face. His obsidian eyes lock onto whoever is speaking with an intensity that could make lesser beings crumble. He’s fuming too, but he’s better at concealing it.
Finally, the guy on the other end is the smallest and sleekest of the oversized bunch. He scans the room every few minutes with a smoldering mien with ice-blue eyes. This one might be able toliterallylight my panties on fire.
I watch them as discreetly as I can while eating my grilled cheese sandwich and a side salad. Imagining them as some super elite spies isn’t completely ridiculous, although they would have a hard time blending in with their disarmingly good looks, not to mention their immense size.
From my understanding, the best spies blend into a crowd with their mundane appearance.
I wouldn’t be a horrible spy. Well, except for everything it entails—like coordination and finesse. I imagine running would be involved in that line of work, too—not my jam either. Now, if I could briskly walk away from a threat, then I’d be good with that. In addition to my aversion to real-life danger and running, I’m just this side of kooky and would attract unwanted attention. And I’d likely blow my cover since I’m not the best liar, even though I make up stories for a living. I’ve been told my face is fartoo expressive.
Okay, on second thought, I’d make a terrible spy. But I can write about being one, so I’m not going to cry about it.
Covertly as possible, I take a picture of the guys with my tablet’s camera. Sure, maybe it’s not ethical, but it’s not like I plan on sharing it anywhere. It’s for…research.
But when I look at the picture, it’s fuzzy. Their figures are there, but blurred, and they have strange auras around them. I wipe the lens clean, because I’m sure I must have put my greasy hands on the lens.
I try again—blurry. Figuring it must be the tablet, I pull out my phone and snap a few shots. When I study them, the pics are still blurry and flared with colors. Well, damn. I guess I will just have to commit these guys to memory using my tired brain.
Frowning, I stare at them. I wonder if I’m blowing their attractiveness out of proportion. Am I just that much of a thirsty bitch? Maybe I onlywantthem to be hotties since I’ve been so alone the last few months.
And maybe not everyone would think they are damn fine.
Lora wanders around the tables and checks on them. Then she makes her way to me. “How are you doing tonight?”
“Mostly good.” I shrug, being honest.
We’ve chatted quite a bit over the years. Enough to know we are both around the same age. I’m about to hit forty, and she had her fortieth birthday last month.
“Is it just my romance brain and hormones, or are those guys stupid-hot?” I ask.
“Yeah, they could change my oil anytime,” she jokes.
“If only it were as easy as making an appointment for a lube job.” I smirk.
“I’d tell you to go flirt with them, but they seem tense.”
