Halfsie

By Kate Reigstad

They say looks can kill. But what if your kiss really can?

After her groom turns up dead the morning of the wedding, Paige flees the scene with the best man hot on her trail. When she stumbles upon a group of eccentric seniors with a dangerous secret of their own, she's plunged into a paranormal world filled with demons...and Depends. Paige needs to find a way to help them while keeping her own secret safe -- and without falling in love along the way. But with a very hot wizard at her side, she's finding that last part a little hard to do...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kate Reigstad
• Release date: Mar 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9780982990308

Kate Reigstad

It all started with a four-inch book written in green crayon on peach paper, called "The Rabbet and Dog and Cat." Yes, I realize that's not how rabbit is spelled. I know that now. But when I was five, I wasn't worried about the spelling. I was too busy creating my masterpiece ("illustrated by the author"). Today, my features appear in publications such as: Parents, Better Homes & Gardens, Family Circle, American Baby, FamilyFun, Woman's Day, Ladies' Home Journal, and others.I write more than just features, though. My fiction includes a middle grade adventure (SUMMER AT FORT TARMETTO: SEARCH FOR REGINALD PEPPERS' LEG), a chick lit series (HALFSIE), and a forthcoming young adult novel (SHE).I've also written a Disney activity book for kids (WALT DISNEY WORLD EXTREME VACATION GUIDE FOR KIDS), available here on Smashwords and other retailers.And I've written nine science books for kids in print with Nomad Press. They're available on Nomad's site (www.nomadpress.net) and at book sellers.Drop me a line -- I'd love to connect with you!

Book preview

HALFSIE

Kathleen M. Reilly

Copyright 2013 Kathleen M. Reilly

Smashwords Edition

ISBN: 978-0-098299303-0-8

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, paranormals, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used ficticiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Although, if you do happen to know a dragon similar to Pete, please let me know immediately, because that would be very cool and I’d love to meet him.

Cover images:

Bride: LeggNet, iStockPhoto

Smoke: Luisfico, Dreamtime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

About Kathleen M. Reilly

CHAPTER ONE

It's bad enough being unlucky in love your whole life, but when your groom kicks the bucket the morning of the wedding, it's time to consider that lifetime Admit One Only ticket.

I was in the little guest bedroom of my future in-law's sprawling plantation home, cramming myself into my wedding gown by sucking in the extra pounds that had lumped onto me over the past week of stress eating. I applied mascara on one eye and had the wand heading toward the other one when screaming and shrieking broke out in the hall. My hand jerked, the resulting broad, black smear leaving half of my face a cheerleader and the other half a football player.

The door to my room burst open to the unmistakable roar of a chain saw.

Walter's great-aunts charged into the room. Wearing faded seersucker house coats that hung limply over their shapeless bodies and knee socks that bunched around their knobby ankles, you'd think they'd only terrify a Hollywood celebutante. But then Matilda hoisted a chain saw with surprising strength, her frizzy, thinning gray hair blowing around wildly. Breathless child! she shrieked over the roar. I leaped up, knocking over the little folding chair.

Agatha pushed past her, narrowly ducking under the chain saw and swinging a stun gun with both hands like it was a light saber. She released it long enough to jab a gnarled finger toward me. Thief of life!

Then they lunged for me.

I screamed, flung the mascara wand at them, and headed for the window. I heard the chainsaw inching closer--thankfully they weren't very spry for their age--and I clawed at the latch, flinging the window open. Then I dove through, kicking my legs wildly, half-expecting my foot to be sliced clean off.

I made it through in one piece, tumbling into the bushes below. Then I scrambled out, hauling miles of gown with me, and started running, barefoot, around the huge home toward the front door. Walter--or someone, anyone--could tame his psycho old aunts. But as I rounded the corner, I pulled up short. An ambulance, silently flashing its lights, was parked in the big driveway, flanked by one marked police car and three nondescript brown cars pretending they were something other than undercover cop cars. The faint smell of stale coffee drifting out the open windows and the rustle of fast-food wrappers told me otherwise.

Walter, I said softly. Not again.

A man, standing on the lower steps of the wide porch, did a double-take when he saw me and broke away from his conversation with a uniformed officer. He was tall and wiry, and he looked familiar. His eyes ran over my wedding dress in a quick scan.

You're Paige? Paige Locke? he asked, surprised. Then he caught himself and said gently, I'm so sorry.

Sorry. I repeated stupidly. I shook my head. No.

He cocked his head and studied me. Do you know what happened?

I shook my head slowly again. I completely suck at lying, and the look of skepticism on his face told me he saw right through me. To his credit, he stopped himself short of rolling his eyes.

He came down the steps and I took a step back. He wasn't an overbearing guy--in fact, he had a boy-next-door face complete with a scrubby beard, casually-messed sandy brown hair, a frat boy swagger, and bright blue eyes which were currently considering me suspiciously. But he carried himself with a confident air of authority that pegged him as a cop. That, and the badge he was pulling out of his pocket kind of gave me a clue.

Walter died some time last night, he said gently. That's when I recognized him. He was in a bunch of photos with Walter. Elliot Nesser, Walter's best friend from D.C. And a U.S. Marshal. How he and mousy Walter were BFFs was beyond me--it was like the quarterback being besties with the kid who eats his boogers on the bus. But here he was, in the flesh, so my theories that Walter had doctored up some photos to make up a fake friendship went out the window. I'm really sorry to meet like this, Elliot said.

I nodded numbly. It's like Albuquerque all over again, the voice whispered in my head. I shoved the thought away. It was not like Albuquerque. Could not be like Albuquerque.

How about San Antonio? the little voice asked. It's a bit like San Antonio.

No, it's not, I said aloud.

What's not? Elliot glanced over his shoulder at the officer on the steps and made a slight jerk of his head toward me. The officer nodded, gave him a just a minute finger and stepped into the house. Listen, Paige. Can I ask you a couple questions? When did you see Walter last?

Then people inside the house began yelling and I heard the mutter of an idling chain saw. The great-aunts pushed past everyone through the front door, swinging their weapons wildly, making everyone scatter. They spotted me. Thief! Of life!

Whoa! Wait right here, Elliot said to me quickly. Then he turned away and spread his arms toward the women as if that would contain them. Calm down, ladies...

I guess this shows how well I follow directions, as well as how I usually respond to trouble: I bolted.

I've seen hilarious footage of brides stumbling while simply walking serenely in their wedding gowns, but let me tell you this: I burned the forty yards from the vast house to where my old pickup truck was parked in six seconds flat, no problem. I had my gown hiked up around my hips and my bare feet slapping on the pavement like the sound of wild applause.

The key was in the ignition, all set for the best man--Elliot--to drive us to the airport for our honeymoon (an austere two-bedroom suite in the Adirondacks). Not that that was going to happen now. I hesitated, my hand on the key. Then I jumped back out and ran over to the big Buick that Walter's mom drove. Walter had never given me an engagement ring, so I yanked the door open, slipped off my necklace, and hung it from the rear-view mirror. I'm sorry, I whispered. Then I hightailed it back to my truck and leaped in.

My meager belongings were already stuffed in the back of the truck so when I roared out of the parking lot and hit the highway the only things left behind were a couple cans that snapped loose from the tailgate Just Married decorations.

But the great-aunts didn't give up easily. Somehow the old gals dodged everyone, and instead of brooms, they mounted a pair of Harley trikes and roared after me. I lost them somewhere north of D.C. right after passing a billboard announcing senior discounts on The Best Seafood Buffet in Town. Getting a deal on lobster beats hacking up your nephew's fleeing bride.

I thought about circling back, finding Elliot, and just turning myself in. But I kept glancing nervously in my rear-view mirror, expecting to hear the roar of the twisted sisters' trikes, so I kept driving. And besides, it was possible I'd had nothing to do with Walter's death at all. So me leaving had no bearing on anything.

Keep telling yourself that.

It was only when I'd calmed down enough to reach for my phone that the full impact of what I'd done hit me. I'd not only left my dead groom behind, but my purse as well. No phone, no wallet.

I hit the dash. Crap.

I'd met those murderous aunts the night before--met all the women in Walter's family for the first time the night before. The womenfolk had gathered in the gardens behind the Franklin family home, chatting and swapping stories as the rental company set up the chairs in rows for the wedding the next morning. There was dew on the grass, pixie lights were in the trees and, more importantly, several dozen bottles at the open bar. Walter's mother politely tried to engage in conversation, but after she admired my necklace--the only thing of value I owned, a gift from my grandparents--we ran out of material to talk about. Walter's curious relatives murmured among themselves, taking turns peeking over at me like they were gawking at a wreck on the interstate. I knew what they were thinking: Who is this chick, anyway, who's damaged enough to marry Walter? I saw money exchange hands for a marital longevity pool.

The aunts had seemed fairly whacked then, but I'd attributed it to a one-two punch of the steady flow of liquor combined with senility. After all, the aunts looked to be around a hundred years old apiece and had that faint odor of musty preservatives like down at the Smithsonian natural history museum.

Breathless child, thief of life! they squawked, gnarled fingers pointing at me. You shall not harm him!

One of them had given me a pretty feisty shove into the punch bowl before my future mother-in law pounced on the pair, frowning and shaking her head. Someone had said to me, Don't worry about it, Paige. Sometimes they get a little carried away and think they're hunting.

Like that cleared it right up.

As several women led the aunts away and out of the garden, the other guests clumped together to resume their whispering and the young bartender returned with some new bottles. He waved me over, shaking his head. Those ladies are crazy, yo, he said.

Tell me about it. I looked over his bottles. I need something strong. Any suggestions?

He grinned devilishly through locks of red hair. In fact, I do have something. It's my signature drink. Just dreamed it up myself last week in bartender school. Wanna try it?

I looked at him doubtfully. You're still in bartender school?

He reached for a clean glass and began clinking bottles around as he shrugged. It's not like I'm a first-year med student doing open heart surgery on you, sister.

True. I slid onto one of the stools in front of his table. Okay. Hit me.

Excellent! He made a show of splashing different liquors into a pub glass, then lit it on fire, dramatically wiggling his fingers over it and offering it to me with some oddball chanting. Enjoy.

I blew out the flame and took a sip. It hit the back of my throat as if it were still on fire, then blazed a trail down my esophagus. When my coughing seizure stopped and I could breathe again, I nodded. Impressive. Hope you get an A.

He nodded. I'm going to call it the Murderous Aunt.

After a few of his drinks, I'd forgotten all about the old gals. I'd flirted with the catering crew, flirted with the young bartender, and given him a forty dollar tip, too. I'd also taken his suggestion to go pay the groom a midnight visit wearing nothing but a smile.

That had turned out to be my fatal error.

Now, with a Murderous Aunt-induced headache throbbing and with Baltimore shrinking farther behind me, I kept meaning to pull off the highway but just couldn't get the courage to do it. In Virginia, I started to pull off at Winchester to find a phone and call Walter's family, but at the last second I chickened out and swerved back onto the highway, earning blaring horns and wild gestures from other drivers.

Then I was actually on the exit ramp in Roanoke when my little voice whispered, don't do it. I yanked the wheel and roared back onto the highway, bumping violently over the shoulder and giving a sorry wave to the semi driver who laid on the air horn for a full half mile, supplemented with a one-finger salute to me.

After that I just kept the pedal to the metal. Through the Blue Ridge Mountains dressed in their autumn finest, down into the hazy Smokies, I kept driving, my mind ping-ponging around. Sure, we'd rushed to the alter. And yes, maybe I should have stuck with my no relationships, ever again policy. But Walter was perfect for me. An unpleasant, self-centered, prudish guy who was loathed by his co-workers and Puritanical in his relationships. We probably could have gone years without even sharing a bed. I'd pictured two twin beds in the master bedroom, with joint ownership of the nightstand. Perfect.

And now I was fleeing the scene entirely. I knew where I was heading. It probably wasn't the smartest move, but I really had nowhere else to go.

My head throbbed and I scrubbed at my temples. I should have known better than to get blitzed. Stupid bartender.

Stupid, stupid! I said, giving the dash another punch.

The highway stretched on ahead of me, an endless treadmill of bland, gray asphalt.

Late in the afternoon, the dashboard gave a rattling buzz and the empty gauge began flashing. I made it to a lonely truck stop on fumes and dug through the few wedding gifts in the back of the truck, ripping off wedding bell and silver paper. I settled on an espresso machine and climbed out.

The truck stop was filled with drivers pulling off to grab some trucker grub. The sound of idling diesel engines mixed with slamming doors and the squawk of brakes as I scanned my options. The first couple truckers I approached were more interested in just gawking at me walking around the gas pumps in my wedding gown. That's the magic of wedding gowns. I'm fairly average--my five foot, five inch frame isn't exactly super model material, even if I had been starving myself to cram 145 pounds into a dress one size too small. My hair was a wild tangle of non-descript brown mop, and even after scrubbing off the mascara mishap, my eyes weren't a Scarlett O'Hara wow! color. They were more like, What color are your eyes, anyway? Hazel? Blue? And the neckline of the dress was struggling to do its best to plump up my size-Bs. Yet here guys were, gaping openly.

But it wasn't the first time I'd been gawked at. Far from it. I dodged their gazes uncomfortably.

Finally, a semi pulled in sporting a sparkly purple cab and I approached hopefully. A lanky man with sparse brown hair and a wad of tobacco firmly wedged behind his gum stepped down from the cab, gave me one look, and dropped to his knee. Marry me, he said sweetly. He shot a liquid stream of tobacco juice in the other direction. So polite. And I'd bet his family wouldn't come after me with chain saws.

The passenger door to the cab slammed and a large woman came rolling around the truck. She took one look at me and swatted the man on the head. Aw, get up, Toby! Why you gotta make a fool outta yourself all the time? She looked me up and down and said, Honey, ain't none of my business, but that don't seem like the best travel outfit, you know what I mean? 'Specially not around these guys.

I held up the espresso machine. I'm running a little low on gas money, I said. Care to buy this?

The woman yanked her husband to his feet and squinted at my box suspiciously, but Toby lit up. Mattie, we sure could use a change from the normal cup of joe, he said to her, not taking his eyes off me. Make things downright fancy to have one of them in the cab. I hoped he was still talking about the espresso machine.

I don't know, Mattie said doubtfully, but she came closer and lifted the box, reading the description. It come with an auto adapter?

Turns out Toby had his heart set on espresso, because he pointed out they already had a converter box in the big sparkly cab. We agreed on a price, they forked over the cash, and I headed back to fuel my truck, waving off a guy who hollered, You lookin' for a groom, miss? I'm right here! and a couple other guys who were at a loss for words and could only whistle.

I snagged a vintage rock tee, a pair of jeans, a baseball cap, and my favorite oversized sweatshirt from the truck and headed through the store to the restroom, past the line of guys playing video poker while they waited for their showers. I changed awkwardly in a stall, banging elbows and knees into the metal walls as I squirmed out of the dress. When I finished, the door to another stall slammed. It was Mattie. We smiled at each other as I balled up the dress as best I could. I put on my friendliest smile. Any chance you have a phone I could borrow?

Again she regarded me suspiciously. Then she beckoned toward my dress. I'll hang on to that, she said. For whaddya call it. Collateral. Toby and me are in the diner, getting something to eat. Come back there and make your call so I can keep an eye on the phone.

I slid into a booth a couple steps away from theirs and gave Mattie an eyebrow-raise that asked, This okay? She approved with a satisfied grunt. I scraped some questionable crud off the phone and looked at it for a full minute. I didn't know the numbers of any of Walter's family. Who was I supposed to call, anyway? And say what? I needed to hear that it wasn't true, that it was a mistake and Walter was still alive. Or at the very least, that he'd fallen in the shower that morning and hit his head, died of some explainable yet tragic accident.

But I knew I wasn't going to hear any of that.

I slowly punched in Walter's number. I held my breath, waiting to hear his voice on the outgoing message. Maybe I could leave a message and someone would check it. Eventually.

Hello?

I jerked the phone away and looked at the number. I'd dialed right. I brought the phone back to my ear. Walter?

Paige, is that you? It's Elliot Nesser. Where are you?

I pulled the phone away again. Why was he answering Walter's phone? I saw Mattie watching me across the room suspiciously. Then I heard Elliot talking again and returned the phone to my ear.

...just want to talk to you. That's all.

What happened to Walter? I asked. My mouth was dry, but my palms were damp.

Pause. Well, that's what I'd like to ask you. We think you were the last person to see him. That true?

I nodded. I was with him. Last night. Midnight.

And...I'm sorry, but I've got to ask this. He was alive when you left him?

Absolutely. Sleeping like the dead.

Silence crackled on the phone line.

That may have been a bad choice of words. I didn't remember much, but I did recall he'd had a lingering smile on his face as I'd crept back to my room.

Then why are you running?

Why am I...are you kidding me? You saw those batshit crazy aunts! There were coming for blood! Why are you answering his phone, anyway?

They're his great-aunts, actually, Elliot corrected, ignoring my question. Paige, where are you? I can come get you. You're not charged with anything. It could have been an accident. But running just makes you look guilty.

I'm not running. Guilty, that may be another story.

Silence.

Paige, he said again, gently. Walter was my friend. He'd want me to help you.

I sniffled. I was tired, and he sounded sincere. His voice was gravelly, soothing, weaving its way through my exhaustion. He'd seemed like a genuinely nice guy in the two seconds I'd met him. I could feel myself starting to come unglued.

I gripped the phone. I'm sorry.

There was a long pause.

Okay, Paige. Come on in and we'll talk about it. We can get you help, Elliot finally said.

Yes. Help. That's what I needed. I needed help. Lay-on-the-couch, find-your-happy-place, tell-me-about-your-childhood help. I'd been navigating solo too long.

So where are you? Elliot asked.

I sniffled again and wiped the back of my hand across my nose. I looked around. Jemamaiah's Truck Stop.

Jema--where the hell is that?

I snuffled and drew a quavering breath. I'm pretty sure it's Tennessee.

Tenn--listen, Paige. You tell me exactly where you are and we'll come get you.

I'm several hundred miles away from Baltimore. Wait. 'We' who?

It sounded like Elliot covered the mouthpiece of his phone with his hand because I heard muffled sounds like Charlie Brown's teacher talking. I pressed the phone harder to my ear. Elliot. What's going on?

There was a soft whoosh as he uncovered the phone. Then his voice was loud and clear. Okay. I think I found the truck stop you're at.

Found it how? Where?

Computer search. Listen, can you find a hotel to stay at for tonight? We--er, I'll come get you as soon as I can.

I frowned. Something was wrong back in Baltimore. He wasn't being Mr. Nice Guy, I realized. He was being Mr. U.S. Marshall, hunting down his buddy's killer. And now I'd just told him where I was.

I watched thoughtfully as the waitress came to Mattie and Toby's table and they placed their order, jabbing fingers at the menu for emphasis.

Paige? Are you there?

Why are you answering Walter's phone?

Paige, I'm coming to get you. We'll talk this through. You need to stay right where you are. I'll--shit, hang on. His voice was distant as he addressed someone in the room. Ma'am, you need to stop that. This is my job.

Someone replied with a nails-on-chalkboard voice. Then Elliot covered the phone again, and the Charlie Brown teacher voices sounded angrier under his palm. Abruptly, there were scuffling sounds and I heard an old woman's voice loud and clear as the phone was apparently ripped from him.

Give me the damn phone! she shouted. Louder--holding the phone to her mouth to address me--she barked, "You stay right there, missy! We have friends in the area who are on their way to get you