Wicked Good

By Jennifer Crowfoot

Built like an ancient God, singer Liam Donahue, has the kind of sultry husky growl that makes women pant and throw their underwear on stage. Tall and gorgeous, he's all animal magnetism, velvety sin, and pure-sex on a stick; but sadly for his female fans and groupies, he's also recently deceased.
Suffering from the effects of a Heroin overdose, Liam Donahue, vocalist of Aussie rock band, 'Wicked Intent,' is rushed to Hospital. Within moments of his unfortunate death, he meets the mysterious, creepy, but, supernaturally talented, Lou. A puzzle in the flesh, who enchants and bewitches this passionate musician's soul with his spine-tingling skills on a guitar.

Little does Liam know at the time, but this hypnotic being will slyly trick him and then steal his memories, before eventually taking him and his band to the dizzy heights of fame under false pretentions.

Unfortunately, as it must, it all comes spectacularly undone, and Liam finds himself spiralling downward on a sinful journey of lies, deepening addiction, heart-wrenching loss and eventually... the ultimate sacrifice.

By unwittingly making a deal with the Devil, Liam has condemned himself and the woman he loves for all of eternity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennifer Crowfoot
• Release date: Mar 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311914323

Jennifer Crowfoot

Married, Jennifer lives with her husband and her spoilt, feline fur-baby, Hades, in beautiful rural N.S.W, Australia.When not writing, Jennifer can be found with her nose buried in a book.She also has a collection of self-published books on Amazon.? ? ?

Book preview

Wicked Good

By

Jennifer Crowfoot

Wicked Good

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2016 Jennifer Crowfoot

Smashwords License Statement.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

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Cover image copyright (c) luciano del polo (stokkete)

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This is a work of fiction.

Characters, names, places, events or incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to places or incidents is purely coincidental. Any places or towns mentioned are used in a fictional manner.

The ‘House of Rock Nightclub’ in Sydney and The River Helton in Brisbane are products of my imagination, and any relation to any establishment bearing the same names are purely coincidental.

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products and social media sites referenced in this work of fiction, all of which have been used without permission.

The use/publication of these trademarks is not authorised, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

* * *

Lyrics for, Down and Out, written by and copyrighted to Author.

*** Warning ***

WICKED GOOD

Is rated 18+

Contains sex scenes.

M/F/M sex scenes.

Frequent drug use.

Strong and frequent profanity.

This novel is a standalone and is written using Australian English and contains Aussie slang and idioms.

It is an Adult / Paranormal.

♪ ♫ ♪

Introducing the boys of the band

WICKED INTENT

Liam Donahue: Lead vocalist, rhythm guitarist.

Arron Brice Lou Hellman: Lead guitarist, back-up vocals.

Rhys Williams: Drums.

Danny Forrester: Bass, back-up vocals.

♪ ♫ ♪

** Manager: Damian Chifley **

♪ ♫ ♪

What would YOU do if you were offered the sun, stars and moon on a silver platter?

What would you relinquish in exchange for your next breath and the promise of immeasurable fame, wealth and the cushy, spoiled life of a mega-rockstar?

What would you concede for that one in a million opportunity....That dizzying opportunity to be elevated so high into the stratosphere, you could strut your asskicker Docs across the moon?

Would you be willing to dance with the Devil? Shake his hand and say, Done deal mate!!

Would you bargain away your most precious possessions?

Your eternal salvation...your soul...your woman’s?

Your child's?

Would the result be WICKED GOOD?

Or, your most idiotic decision yet?

♪ ♫ ♪

Dedication

For everyone who loves music….

And to the bands who dedicate their lives and talent to keeping us entertained.

Without you all, the boys of Wicked Intent would still be a spark of an idea in my head.

Chapter One

Wanna Make a Sweet Deal Mate?

Phussh-Phussh. I feel a slight pressure around my mouth and nose, and then have the urge to gag as a puff of air is forced down my throat. I moan, the sound muted and lost beneath the plastic mask enclosing my mouth and nose. With the gentle influx of air, I feel my chest rise and fall, my lungs given aid to do what I’ve taken for granted for so long now.

Breathe.

Simply breathe.

Phussh-Phussh. From somewhere around my right shoulder an authoritative male voice speaks kindly, his words drifting into my ear, Hang in there mate, we’re nearly there.

Phussh-Phussh. A gentle hand pats my shoulder. Once. Twice. As if soothing a frightened child — or a terrified puppy— before I hear another voice chime in, C’mon, you’re doing great there. Phussh-Phussh. That’s the ticket man, just breathe. In. out. In. Out.

This one has a thick foreign brogue and through the swirling fog in my mind, I try to place his accent…. Irish? Scottish? Fuck it. I give up. I’m not in the proper frame of mind to solve riddles at the moment. That shit’s best left for when I’m not having such a hard time putting my thoughts together.

Phussh-Phussh. A hand touches my shoulder again, gently squeezing. Open your eyes for us. C’mon.

My eyelids wriggle and then my lashes slowly fan upwards. Blurry strangers dressed in navy blue fill my vision as they lean over, peering at me with concerned eyes and speaking in drawling, echoed tones, making them sound as if they’re talking to me from the bottom of a well. Their out-of-sync chatter is accompanied by the whooshing and phusshing of the compressed air filling my lungs and I look away momentarily, distracted as bright lights flicker rhythmically overhead as I pass beneath them.

My heart thump-thumps and then flops around in my chest like a dying carp.

Shit that can’t be good.

Besides the voices coming at me from my side, head and feet, I hear a steady and rhythmic cha-choonk, cha-choonk. It reminds me of shopping trolley wheels, and I vaguely wonder why I’m being pushed down a grocery aisle. And why the hell I’m strapped into the cart.

Ignoring the weird sounds around me, I attempt to shut my eyes against the dazzling lights. But no matter how much I will them to close, they remain open, fixated on the white waffled ceiling as it whips past my vision.

I drag back a painful breath and in my head I hear a shitty wheezing, gurgling sound.

Jesus wept, is that me? And in the next thought, fuck, my chest hurts.

A series of beeps sounds from somewhere above my head. His pulse is erratic as all hell and…oh shit. Christ no, his pressure’s dropping.

Cha-choonk, cha-choonk, cha-choonk.

Phussh-Phussh. A hand touches my arm and that thick lilting brogue is back, teasing my ear and exciting the musician part of me that lives and breathes melodies, Hang in there mate, not far to go now, we’re nearly there.

Before I can ponder the strangeness of my situation any further, my body turns at a right angle and I come to a jerking stop. More bright lights dazzle me and even with the mask on, I can smell a pot pourri of strong chemicals in the air. It smells like a Vet’s, although I can’t hear any dogs barking.

They must be all asleep, I muse. Or tripping out like me. I chuckle but it’s more of a pained gurgle.

My mind becomes fuzzy, like it’s stuffed with cotton wool and my thoughts slow, becoming disjointed. As I wonder what the hell I’m doing taking a nap in a Vet’s surgery, a steady bustling hum of voices — all speaking a foreign gibberish at once — filter into my consciousness, rapidly displacing my vet theory.

But, now, I’m even more perplexed as to my location.

Am I at a club?

But why would I be strapped down? I’m not into the bondage scene.

Who have we here? Asks a lightly accented female. Her voice is calm and soothing, but with an obvious edge of authority. A bit like a Headmistress.

Is she shittin’ me? How can she not know who I am? I’m Liam-Fucking-Donahue for Christsakes!

Jesus wept, where the holy fuck am I? All I remember is…is….

FUCK! I can’t remember anything after getting my hit in the bathroom with Arron.

SHIT! Halley.

Where’s Halley? Where’s my woman?

I will my arms to break free of the constraints and the muscles in my arms twitch as spasms grip them, but no one notices. HALLEY, I scream in my mind. For Christ’s sake, would one of you bastards tell Halley to come and get me? I’m sick. I just wanna go home and sleep it off. Just like I’ve done a thousand times before.

No one notices my attempt at a break-out.

No one answers.

No one says anything.

Fucking deaf pricks.

There’s a crackle of paper from somewhere near my left shoulder, but I’m so tired, confused and sick, I just can’t summon up the strength — or willpower — to turn my head a fraction and check it out. The inner struggle to release myself has drained the last ounce of strength from my body.

I’m completely rooted.

This is…ah, — more paper rustling — Mr Donahue, Liam, says brogue voice in a mechanical and professional manner. Thirty years of age. Collapsed at home. Suspected drug overdose.

Okay. Thank you. Cool fingers hold my eyelids up as a bright spotlight shines into my eyes. Details? Was he responsive on the scene? As the Headmistress’s softly accented voice commands the occupants of the room, my body sags outwards as my restraints are unbuckled and then removed. But before I can find it in myself to truly give a fuck, my hands are raised slightly and my fingertips squeezed. Pinpoint pupils. Blue nails and lips. Shallow respiration. Excessive perspiration. All signs of a Heroin overdose. And judging by the strong smell of alcohol wafting from him, he’s also suffering from extreme intoxication.

Whatcha talkin’ about? I barely drank enough Grey Goose to get a bu —

My thoughts freeze right about there, as I feel my shirt being cut from me. Jesus, whatcha doin? I demand, not realising my outrage is only heard in-between my own ears. This shirt cost me two hundred-fucking-bucks. Again, no fucker bothers to answer me as they proceed to press sticky shit onto my skin, above my tits.

That’s gonna fuckin’ smart when they rip those bastards off, plus a thousand chest hairs.

My heart pounds erratically against my ribs as cool air washes over my newly exposed torso, chilling my heated skin. I tremble violently, I can’t stop it. My gut roils and hot bile scalds a pathway up my throat, like lava up a volcano’s vent.

I gag beneath the mask. Ugly, ugly noises, like a fuckin’ Gibbon howling in pain.

Or some shit like that.

More heaving and gagging.

For fuck’s sake, shoot me now. Goddamn it all to Hell.

The mask is lifted away. Nurse, we need an Emesis bag, right now please.

Yes Doctor Randalashi.

Footsteps shuffle quickly across the room, I hear a rustle of packaging and then the Headmistress — no you fuckwit. Doctor, I scold myself — continues, On the count of three we’ll roll him over. One. Two. Three. Roll.

Strong, gentle hands grasp my shoulder and hip, and I’m sure I’ve been strapped into some sort of fun-park ride and I’m now hurtling through a dizzying loop-de-loop as my world instantly tilts sideways on its axis. Within seconds, I’m expertly rolled over onto my side and a large blue-plastic condom contraption is placed flush against my open mouth.

Oh, thank fuck. I thought I was gonna chuck up on myself for a minute.

My heavy-lidded eyes now fix on four pairs of legs, clad in blue pyjama pants and shod in fucktastically ridiculous paper slippers.

Why are they wearing their P.Js?

This question swiftly slices through the confusing, hissing white noise whipping around my head, before my stomach turns inside out and I groan like a sick cow into the plastic tubing.

Jesus wept, I sound like I’m trying to shit out an echidna.

Jesus Christ.

Fuck this shit!

Before I can stop said shit from exploding outta me à la Exorcist-style….

I spew my hole up via a continuous wave of nasty, choking heaves.

Enormous, gut-scraping and motherfuckin’cruel.

And not to mention loud as all fuck.

The male voices speak over the top of my not-so-finest-vocal-performance, answering the Doctor’s earlier question.

No, he wasn’t responsive. From the information we could gather from his friends when we arrived on scene, he’d mainlined an unknown amount of Heroin and imbibed at least a third of a one litre bottle of Vodka. We administered two mils of Naloxone I.M with limited response.

Hmm, alright. She clears her throat. Well, he seems to have stopped purging, so on the count of three, we’ll roll him back over. It’s been over five minutes since his last dosage, and as he’s still not responding as well as I’d like, we’ll administer another dose —

As she spoke, I hopped back onto that crazy loop-de-loop ride and found myself staring back up at the ceiling.

— Nurse can you prepare another two mils of Naloxone please. We’ll also establish an I.V of Saline as well.

Yes Doctor.

Doctor, the Naloxone.

Thank you.

I hear a sharp rip, like opening a condom wrapper and then the pungent scent of rubbing alcohol assaults my nose. What feels like a freezing wet tongue licking me on the bicep is rapidly followed by the sensation of someone jabbing what I’m sure is a fucking dart, deep into my flesh.

My arm twitches and I attempt to blink, without much success.

Christ almighty, whatcha doing you rough bitch?

Before I can fully register the shitty amateurish jab in my bicep —

You call yourself a Doctor? SHIT! You really need to go back to friggin’ Doctor School and practice on some more defenceless oranges, I snark.

— I hear the crinkle of more plastic and a loud ripping creeeekkk as something’s torn apart. Then, before I can grasp what’s happening, a fuckin’ hornet the size of a Pterodactyl stings my hand — funny that, I never heard the buzzing or flapping of wings. After a few seconds I feel the sting and chill of its icy venom shooting up into my hand and arm.

Nurse, a Nasal Cannula please, demands Doctor Sadistic Bitch.

Creeeekkk. Riiiiip!

What feels like miniature golf tees are shoved into my nostrils and my head raised a fraction as an elastic band is slipped around it, holding them in place. My head is lowered gently to the pillow and I inhale the sweet air as it’s piped into my lungs — like oxygen into an old-fashioned pearl diver’s helmet.

I listen as my heart lazily pounds in my ears.

Slow. Sluggish. Wet.

An attractive Asian face hovers above me, filling my vision. She’s all sharp cheekbones, dark glittering eyes, and shiny black shoulder length bob. In another lifetime, I’m sure I woulda tried to bone her. But I have Halley in my life now, I don’t need to randomly stick my dick into any female with a pulse.

I try to blink, but the muscles controlling this simple act are playing hardball, and nothing happens.

My lips part, and I hear what sounds like a Bullmastiff panting.

It’s close by.

Like right in my ears.

Nope, not a dog.

Me.

Miss Asia’s still talking to me.

I watch her lips carefully, concentrating on what she’s saying.

Can you hear me Sir? Liam, can you tell me what else you had besides the Heroin and alcohol? Did you take any other drugs?

What the hell? Of course I can friggin’ hear you! Any other drugs? No, my poison of choice and the one constant lover in my life — besides Halley —will always be….

The irresistible Lady H.

I love to chase the Dragon, but maybe this time, I’ve been a little too reckless with it? Underestimated its power.

FAAAARK!

What’s goin’ on?

Another light shines into my eyes and despite my best efforts, I can’t blink, or shut my eyes.

I can’t look away.

And, I can’t stop my treacherous eyes from misting up like a fuckin’ girly wuss.

I moan low in my throat, and my limbs stiffen as a ferocious pain bites deep inside my chest. Bolts of white-hot agony shoot out along my arms and legs, and my chest constricts and shrinks like I’m a slab of whole rump being cyrovaced….

And then, I hear the sweetest fucking riffs I’ve ever heard in my life, and I’m instantly captivated, my pain forgotten, the frantic voices, wild beeps and frenzied activity around me fading away.

My body relaxes as I absorb the music into me like a starving man at a feast.

The complex melody calls to a place deep in my muso’s soul and I’m powerless to resist its siren’s song. Without a second thought as to what I’m doing — or how the fuck I’m managing to do it with all of this shit attached to me, or without someone saying anything to me — I sit and swing my legs over the side of the ambulance stretcher, my bare toes touching the smooth, marble-patterned linoleum.

Standing, I tilt my head, close my eyes and sway my upper body from side to side as my ears greedily capture every delicious, individual note. My blood sings in my veins, and opening my eyes wide I drift away, skirting the half a dozen or so oblivious people milling around the trolley bed as I round the head and turn towards the hypnotising musical notes.

Every cell in my body pulses like a mini heartbeat, and raising my arm, I watch with fascination as golden sparks skate along the surface of my skin.

That’s some trippy shit, I think, my head tipping from side to side as I stare at the miniature lightning bolts dancing up and down my tattooed forearm. I drop my arm back to my side, and continue to move forward, my soul drawn to the music like metal shavings to a magnet.

The air surrounding me feels alive. Pulsating. Breathing. I hear it crackling with pent-up electricity, and as my bare feet glide across the floor tiny shocks prickle the skin of my soles.

Christ almighty, holy fuck, this music’s irresistible. The melody’s like a thousand fingers caressing me, touching every part of my body. Inside and out. It swirls around me, embracing me.

I blink twice as a low wicked chuckle reverberates in my head, quickly followed by the honking sound of a game show buzzer and five whispered words…. Not even fucking close Liam.

What the Hell?

Ah, now you’re getting warmer mate, the gravelly voice in my mind says cryptically.

Pausing, I ignore the low laughter in my mind and turn my head, glancing over my shoulder as I study the disgusting mess that’s my worn-out body. The body that’s rapidly cooling and just as quickly being bleached of its former healthy shade of tanned pink, as the spark of life extinguishes.

Disconnected from the view, I don’t give this weird situation another thought, as I take in the sight of me laying there. Coolly, I note the roughly hacked open shirt, exposing my heavily inked, muscular chest; a chest which is now randomly decorated with a selection of stickers, their attached wires hooked up to a wildly beeping monitor atop a shiny metal cabinet.

My eyes drift to the face of the monitor as it screams out a shrill warning.

Calm and still feeling oddly detached from my surroundings, I notice the lines flashing continually across its black screen are as flat as the Nullabor.

Totally motionless.

Well fuck! I guess that shit there means I’m dead! Holy fucking hell! This ain’t too ba — I think, the skilful playing of the six strings effortlessly distracting me from finishing my thoughts.

Instead my brows dip and rise as I watch everyone in the room begin to run around like blue-arsed flies as they smoothly swing into action. No one seems to notice me standing here watching, or hear the guitar’s song echoing around the room. I suppose this should alarm me, but I find I truly don’t give a rat’s arse as to the how or why, and frankly, the scene is as boring as all shit. Turning away, my complete and utter attention is now entirely riveted on the mysterious guitarist casually sitting on a rolling stool in the corner of the room.

One of his long leather clad legs rests on the ground, the booted foot tapping out the complex beat of his melody, while the other leg is bent, the boot hooked around the chair’s metal strut as he balances the Gibson J-45 Custom on the thigh of his upraised leg.

My mouth hangs open as I gaze in awe at the guitarist that’s making music like I’ve always wanted to be able to do, but never had the dexterity, or skill to do.

As if sensing my eyes on him, he looks up at me with the brightest sky-blue eyes I’ve ever seen and winks. Hello Liam, I’ve been waiting for you, he says, his voice punching me in the chest with a sensation of terrible and carefully constrained power.

He continues to gaze at me for a moment, a secret smile tipping up the corner of his lips as the fingers of his right hand skilfully strum the honey-coloured beauty’s strings, while his left caresses the fret board. Closing his eyes, he raises his face to the ceiling, his glossy white-blonde hair cascading down the back of his shoulders as he becomes one with his instrument.

The sounds he’s coaxing from his guitar make the hairs on my nape and arms stand on edge. It’s the most unearthly, horrible and simultaneously, exquisite piece of music I’ve ever heard, and I can’t look away, even if I wanted to.

I’m bedazzled by this stranger’s otherworldly skills.

The sounds of the Emergency Department’s Doctors and medical staff as they bark out orders and frantically try to save my wretched, abused body fades away, as the stranger’s music swirls around me.

Capturing my heart.

My soul.

I release a sigh, my chest still and unresponsive. "Who are you? How do you know my name? What in the name of fuck is going on here? Why can’t anyone else but me see you? My brows knit in confusion. Am I in Heaven?"

His eyes flick open, fixing on me. One brow rises and he throws his head back, howling with amused laughter. Oh Liam, Liam, Liam. He shakes his head and tsks, and I actually see his tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth before his face smooths out, becoming stern and a confusing vision of terrifying beauty. "You’re such a curious and amusing little soul. Now, what was it that some wise arsehole once said about curiosity and the cat, huh? The corner of his lips curl up in an angelic, but deadly smile, and I shudder as if a giant ice cube has been shoved up my arse. That’s right, the furry little dumb cunt got itself killed."

My eyes widen.

He smirks, his heavenly blue eyes darkening and sparkling with cruel humour. But seeing as I like you, Liam, and I’m feeling rather magnanimous at the moment, I’ll answer just one of your questions. You can call me…. Without missing a beat, a blistering and complex rock melody blasts out from beneath his skilled fingers as he considers his next words. Lou. Fuck yeah, I like that, he finally rasps, his voice sounding like he smokes a pack a day and then gargles with Moonshine.

He closes his beautiful, but oh so terrifying eyes again, and I feel a sense of relief as his attention is drawn away from me and back to his guitar, his fingers flying lightening quick across the strings, making them weep and wail in an almost erotic way. I’ve never been into cocks, but right at this moment mine twitches and hardens in my jeans as I watch the performance in front of me, and the almost divine beauty of the man-beast performing for my pleasure.

Fascinated, and insanely drawn to him, I take a step forward. His fingers still on the strings and the chair squeals out in complaint as he places both feet on the floor and spins around to face me. I pause, allowing my eyes to graze over him, measuring him up. I push my lips out and bob my head as I check him out, he’s one scary motherfucker, and I’ve met quite a few in my time, but I gotta admit the dude has good taste in threads.

A flash of irritation bites as I begrudgingly concede he’s elegant in a flashy-vain-look-at-me-kinda way.

He smiles slyly as if my thoughts are clear to him.

Wearing a black as sin — what appears to be a Gucci — button down shirt, with the top three buttons undone, shows me a hint of a pale, muscular chest beneath. Even seated and partially hidden behind the body of the guitar, I can tell that his physique is more developed and solider than that of the average man. With his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, I note his arms — as they casually cradle the body of the guitar — ripple with well-developed muscle tone as he idly strums out random selections of chords over and over.

Chunky silver rings adorn each of his fingers and thumbs, and beneath the harsh lights of the Emergency Room, they twinkle like Aladdin’s Cave, catching my eye momentarily. I frown and an icy frisson nips up and down my spine as I catch a glimpse of unnaturally long and sharp nails.

I shrug and my lips roll up as I puff out a soundless pfffft. Who the fuck am I to throw stones? If the dude wants to have nails like Freddie Krueger, that’s his cross to bear. Personally, I think it’s a dodgy look, but then again not everyone likes tattoos, long hair, or piercings…and I’ve got a shitload of them, and I’ve never given a rat’s arse what others think.

My eyes dart up and away from his hands, and I bob my head — impressed as all fuck — as I cop a squiz at the epic tattoo trailing around his neck. Inked in rich, vibrant hues of deep blues, reds and black, it’s an exquisitely rendered and highly detailed snake. I can see every scale along its thick sinewy body, and strangely its black eye appears to glitter as if it’s alive. Undulating around his neck like a choker, it ends in the hollow of his throat, where it has its tail tightly clasped between closed jaws.

Sweet!

As my eyes flicker over him, studying him, his head tips to the side and full, plump lips part in a secret smile as those glittering blue eyes fix on me. Spearing me to the spot. My eyes widen and I blink as scarlet flames leap deep in their obviously ancient, rich blue irises. I shiver, my balls contracting and hugging my groin, apparently seeking the security of my gut. I can’t say I blame them wanting to hide, ‘cause I sure as fuck wanna hide from the searing intensity of those eyes.

My legs weaken and I swear on Halley’s life that he’s looking right into my soul as he says in a voice dripping with god-like power, strength and an ultimate authority, Wanna make a sweet deal mate?

What? Who the hell is this joker? My forehead creases as my brows meet low over my eyes and then rise.

He chuckles and the sound rumbles out from his chest like distant thunder.

Low. Deep. Menacing.

Standing, he unfolds to his full height, of at least six foot four, which bests me by at least three inches. Bending to the side, he gently places the guitar against the wall, before straightening and calmly walking towards me. He wears a brilliant smile on his full lips, but I notice that it doesn’t reach his eyes, they glitter coldly. Like shards of ice. Or crystal daggers.

His expression one of insatiable hunger.

I have a fleeting vision of a ravenous homeless cat stalking an unaware mouse and another chill flirts with my spine. My eyes drop to the floor. I study my bare feet, the swirling marble pattern of the lino… the toes of his boots as they stride across its shiny surface towards me.

Anything to keep myself from being sucked in and consumed by the fiery danger I see blazing in those ancient orbs.

His shiny black boots are soundless as he gracefully crosses the floor. The quiet allows me to hear the low sibilant hisses emanating from his direction. Raking my gaze upwards, I blink stupidly, as I watch the impossible; the snake is writhing about his throat like a worm on hot cement.

He reminds me of a MMA fighter strutting into the arena, heading towards the cage….Brimming with barely reined-in power and bristling with self-assuredness and no lack of confidence. He is the picture of wicked elegance, and is undeniably and unashamedly impressive in the knowledge of his complete, and utter invincibility.

He struts across that few feet of floor as if he’s the King of the World and my nape prickles as the air becomes thick, sizzling with static electricity. Sniffing, I swear I smell a sharp scent of ozone, reminiscent of lightning, and in that exact moment I can almost believe that he is something other than a man.

Something not human and not incredibly fussed on hiding that fact from me either.

Swallowing down the dry lump in my throat, I drag in a long shuddery breath of air I apparently don’t need anymore, because to all intents and purposes I’m freaking dead. And judging from a quick glance over my shoulder at the body I’ve worn for thirty years, that’s now flopping like a landed mullet as they attempt to jump start me with what looks like irons shoved on either side of my chest….

I’m well and truly up shit-creek.

It sure as fuck doesn’t look like I’m getting up and walking outta here within the next hour or so.

Unfortunately, I don’t have anymore time to consider my jolting carcass, because I can sense he’s here. Right. There. In. Front. Of. Me. Every hair on my body stands on end. I close my eyes, take another useless breath, let it out in a soundless sigh and feel the tendons in my neck twinge as I slowly swivel my head back around.

He’s stopped a mere two feet before me, his clawed hands deep in his front pockets, his legs braced shoulder width apart. A look of polite amusement on his smooth face.

Fuuuuck me!

Ignoring the primal urge clawing deep in my gut, insisting I back off and immediately turn tail and bolt, or float away, or whatever the hell it is that deceased deadshits do when they reach their use-by dates, I draw on a reserve of inner fortitude — or an ocean of stupidity — and straighten to my full height.

Crossing my arms across my chest I rock back on my heels and raising my chin, I smile widely with a self-confidence I’m most definitely not feeling.

Just fuckin’ fake it till the fat lady sings, Liam. Smile like the frigging village idiot.

And so I do.

Hey man, how’s it hangin’? Both of his brows shoot up at that and I bob my chin at his attire. Cool threads mate, you that Reaper dude?

Tiny flames in his eyes flare up and just as swiftly disappear, leaving me of the opinion that not only am I dead, but I’ve also lost my marbles and just imagined seeing fire. His head nods in the affirmative, as if telling me that, ‘yes you innocuous little bastard, you did see what you think you saw.’

I lick dry lips with an even dryer tongue, as his smile widens…the whole effect serving to make him look a tad like a grinning White Pointer when it leaps out of the water, threatening to climb on board your boat, but minus the multiple rows of jagged teeth.

As if he has all the time in the world, he removes one of his hands and casually picks at his front teeth with the ice-pick growing out of his fingertip. Satisfied that whatever has dared to take up residence in-between his perfectly shiny, perfectly white teeth is now removed, he cocks his head, places his hand back in his pocket and stares down at me.

As if I’m a new and fascinating species of insect.

Or an irritating toddler who has just spewed sour, coagulated milk all over his gleaming black boots.

Shit.

Extracting that hand again, he rubs his closely shaven chin in-between his thumb and forefinger, a spark of amusement flashing across his face, making it seem more innocent and angelic. His lips turn up in a secret smile and I can’t help but notice that his skin has a luminous glow to it now I see him up close. The flesh of his face, chest and arms is flawless. I can’t see a single mole, freckle, scar or imperfection at all.

He’s like a freaky Michelangelo sculpture come to life.

He’s truly and entirely without a solitary blemish.

I’ll be stuffed! Maybe he’s an Angel?

Oh really Liam? An Angel? You’re a classic, too funny —

He pauses and his head tips back as he lets rip with a delighted belly laugh.

At my expense. Bastard.

The sound of his mirth vibrates through to my dead core and I stiffen, pissed off that he’s got the hide to laugh at me and, apparently read minds.

He stops laughing, straightens and looks me in the eyes as he adds, "— but you are on the right track though."

I uncross my arms and despite the serial-killer vibes he’s putting out, I find myself growing angry. With him. With my situation.

With every fucking thing that’s gone on tonight.

Raising my hand, I stab my finger at him and growl, Enough of the small talk you freak, I haven’t got time to listen to your riddles and fancy-schmancy shit. Irritated, I scratch at the shadowy bristles carpeting my jaw. "Fuck it, I guess I have now I’m dead, but that doesn’t mean I wanna hear it. So cut the bullshit out Lou… I sneer after saying the name I’d been given, …and tell me firstly, who the fuck you are. Secondly, what the hell you want with me.