Song for Angela Rose (Love's Deadly Addiction): Hayteswood: Supernatural Pulps

By Scott E. Douglas

Randal Bates was always 'good with the ladies'. Most times he wanted to find an attractive bed partner, he did. Most times they didn't turn his life upside down. 

Angela Thornton never 'slept around'. She was in love with her dream man and… well… Things weren't so dreamy. She met Randal when she was feeling vulnerable and although was a mistake, one thing led to another and...

 

Randal got shot, then Angela, and it was the beginning of a crazy series of events involving deception, danger and werew… lycanthropes and unexpected new friends who'll change both their lives forever. 

 

Provided they survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott E. Douglas
• Release date: Jul 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393419532

Book preview

Chapter 1: Randal’s Morning

SUMMER IS WHEN THE sun rises early and it’s impossible to sleep late, unless you’re in a crypt. Even then, Randal doubted he could. He’d slept in apartments in the centre of buildings with no windows to let the sunshine in, and somehow managed to wake up just before dawn.

The apartment he woke up in was small, its bedroom barely big enough to accommodate its king-sized bed. The front door had opened to a living space separated from a kitchen space by a counter. The bathroom was beside the kitchen and the bedroom opposite it. This didn’t suit Randal. He preferred the bedroom beside the bathroom, especially for nights when he had a guest. Well, this time he was a guest; so he wouldn’t complain.

Randal rolled over and looked at his host. Long blonde hair spilled over her pillow, soft slim curves pressed into the mattress, smooth round buttocks pointed toward him. Perfect, he thought, although he knew she wasn’t. This idea of perfection formed every morning with every partner, caused by the afterglow of good sex. It was something Randal was wary of.

Lithe. That was the word that described the heroines of the romance pulps that many of his partners read. Randal made it a point to thumb through any such books he found in a woman’s apartment. It gave him ideas of what he should do, and how to get out in the morning. Of course the easiest thing for that is to not stay the night, but that cheapened the encounter for some of his partners, and he didn’t want that. Even if he was never going to see them again, he always wanted it to be remembered as a good experience.

Lithe. Randal surveyed the woman’s body and made a mental note to look up what that word meant. He had a picture in his mind what it meant, and this woman matched that picture.

What’re you doing? She rolled over to face him.

Looking at you. Randal smiled.

Why?

I like to. Randal shrugged.

You probably don’t even remember my name.

Angela Rose Thornton. Randal ran his finger down her forehead and along her nose. Still don’t know how accurate that name is. An angel with a rose thorn in the middle.

What part aren’t you sure of? Angela raised her eyebrows.

Both. Randal kissed her forehead. Do you know what lithe means?

Skinny, I guess. Why?

I’ve been trying to find another word to describe you. If lithe means skinny, then no. That’s not it.

Another word instead of what?

Perfect. Randal shrugged again.

Angela propped herself up on her elbow. Randal noted how her breasts sat against her chest.

You don’t think perfect is a good word? Angela asked.

Looking at what I’m seeing now, I’m thinking it’ll do.

And what are you seeing now?

Two perfectly formed breasts against the slim body of a fascinating and charming woman.

So that’s your idea of perfection? Two perfectly formed breasts?

Call me shallow, but I like them. He ran his finger down her cheek and stopped it under her chin. And I like your smile, and your warmth, and your sense of fun. His eyes wandered to her breasts again. If it was because of those breasts that my attention was drawn to the rest of you...  He gazed into her eyes. ...then I’m grateful to them.

She shook her head and smiled. So sweet, she whispered.

There were other breasts in the club last night, some of them better than these. But yours were the ones that called. I heard them. I was standing at the bar and over all the noise they called, ‘Randal, we’re here. We need you to caress us!’

Angela laughed. You’re insane.

I can’t leave those poor, lonely breasts feeling unloved.

It was good last night. Angela laid back.

It was. Randal leaned over and kissed her.

It felt like it was more than just sex.

Randal swallowed. She was right. We hardly know each other, he whispered.

I know.

There was something more, he said. I don’t know what it was, but it was there. I don’t understand it, but it was good.

Something like you hear in a love song.

Was that what it was? Randal asked.

What? A love song?

Those amazing breasts of yours were singing, weren’t they?

Angela giggled. You’re totally crazy.

Batshit crazy, he said and ran a finger over a nipple then kissed her.

Do you have to go now?

Not right now. He kissed her again.

Good, she whispered.

IT WAS LATER THAN RANDAL wanted but still too early for most people to be awake. Angela had offered him breakfast, which he refused but relented when percolated coffee was on the table. Outside was where he wanted to be, with the love of his life. His bright green, Giakin Spectre VFR41. The spectre was only the second fastest motorcycle in existence on Hayteswood but usually the fastest wherever Randal was. Fourteen-hundred CC, six speed and capable of 200 miles in six seconds, she was beautiful. Bright metallic green, shining, powerful.

Randal donned his helmet, put the key in the ignition, gunned his girl to life, and took off down the road. This was freedom, this was life, this was what he was born for.

It would have only been a couple of minutes to get to his apartment. Just a few streets and he’d be at the apartment he shared with two other book keepers, but that morning Randal wanted to ride. Like the previous night, when the fancy took him and he wanted some company, this time was his time to be with his beloved.

He turned onto one of the main roads out of the city, careful not to draw the attention of the local coppers, until he was on the city’s outskirts. Then he let his girl run. The exhilaration of the countryside slipping past him at almost a hundred and fifty miles an hour was extasy. Anybody looking to chase him now had no chance. No cop wanting to give him a ticket would get close. This was heaven.

Half an hour later, Randal stopped at Philips Beach. It was generally secluded, a place he sometimes liked to bring women he’d met for a discreet swim and some intimacy. But this was his time to be alone. He stopped at the car park and looked to the sand, tempted to go for a swim. He hadn’t showered before he left and a swim would wash the smell of Angela away. For now her smell pleased him. He’d never see her again, she was convenient for that night, and a relationship wasn’t what he wanted and she wasn’t the kind of woman he’d imagined himself with. She was too close to perfect, but he ached to be near her.

Perhaps he should swim.

A black car pulled into a space on the opposite end of the car park.

He wouldn’t swim. He’d walk instead.

A woman ran along the beach toward him. She had brown hair, wore a t-shirt and tight denim shorts and looked like she’d been swimming.

Two men got out of the car. One of them looked at his bike.

He wouldn’t walk, in fact he’d go to his apartment. His things were already packed, his room mates expected him gone yesterday but Randal wanted one last night. Well, he’d had the one night.

The men at the car opened one of its rear doors.

Randal put on his helmet and turned toward his bike.

Something hit him in the back, then something else. Randal barely had a chance to notice the blood pouring from the front of his jacket before everything went black.

RANDAL SIGHED DEEPLY before noticing his beloved Spectre. It was on the ground, leaking oil, and the oil was on fire.

The fuck!

He rushed to his injured bike.

The fuck! it was a woman’s voice behind him. He turned and saw the woman who’d been running along the beach. What the fuck just happened? she asked.

My Bike! Randal tore off his helmet. What’re you talking about? he snapped at the woman while trying to stamp out the fire in the oil.

You were dead. Or, at least you should be.

What?

Look! She pointed toward his injured bike.

There was a wounded man laying there, leaking blood onto the asphalt. He wore a motorcycle helmet like his own, was dressed in clothes like his, and looked strange.

What happened to him? Randal abandoned the fire and went to the man.

It’s you. You got shot, the woman declared.

Randal rolled the man over and looked into his visor. The man had short cropped black hair, a long moustache and was gasping for breath. He’s not dead! Randal called to the woman. Help me with him.

The face in the visor looked panicked.

Don’t worry, Randal said soothingly. We’re going to help you. Just hang in there.

The man shook his head, his eyes wide. His body twitched, then stilled.

He looks like one of the men from that black car. The woman was behind him.

There were two men in that car, Randal said vacantly. Neither of them had a—

The Fuck! the woman snapped.

Randal jumped. You said that already, he said.

Well if you can think of something more eloquent to say about that.

About what? Randal looked at the man. The man’s moustache had disappeared, his hair had grown and lightened a little and his features... The fuck! Randal snapped.

Very eloquent, the woman said. He must have been some kind of shifter. I hear they return to their original form once they’re dead.

I’m not a shifter, Randal said.

What?

Randal took off the man’s helmet. I said, I’m not a shifter. Now let’s see who he is. He pulled the man’s wallet from his pocket. It was identical to his. He opened it to find a hundred and forty crown tokens, two condoms and a bike license. The name and photograph on the license was that of Randal Graham Bates.

The fuck! the woman said. That dead guy’s you!

No he’s not!

He is! Look at him, his license. I saw you get shot, then change into... she looked at the car, then the bike. What the fuck happened?

Randal took his wallet from his pocket. It contained his license, two condoms and a hundred and forty crown tokens.

The fire on the oil started moving faster toward the bike.

Randal went to try and stamp the fire some more. I don’t know what’s happening but that’s not me. I’m here. There were two men in that car.

One of them ran off, for some reason, the woman said.

And that was the other one? Randal asked.

It was, but now... I don’t know. She sniffed the air then sniffed Randal. What’s your name?

Randal, he said. Will you help me put this out!

My name’s Rochelle, but call me Shelley.

Why? Randal stepped away from his bike as a flame took hold of something near the petrol tank.

Because I don’t like the name Rochelle.

Okay Shelley. Randal ushered her away from the wreck. There were two men with guns in that car and something happened to them and now they’re around here somewhere... something else on the bike flared alight and they ran toward the car, ...and I don’t have a ride, Randal finished.

"What’re you saying?’

I’m saying we should get the fuck out of here and try and figure this shit somewhere else.

Right, she said. And how’re we going to do that?

Randal looked at the car.

Right, she said again. You know how to start one without a key?

Randal shrugged. Can you?

I’ll go look, Shelley said. I... She looked at the dead man beside the burning bike. The fuck, she whispered.

So you said. Randal strode over to the car. The doors were open. The keys are in the ignition! he called to Shelley.

We can’t just steal a car.

The shit we can! Randal snapped. Two lunatics got out of this thing, shot... did something with their guns; and they wrecked my bike. No court in the land is going to convict us of being unreasonable.

Unreasonable isn’t the crime, Shelley said. Stealing a car is.

Then we leave it somewhere it can be found and let the cops find the owner.

Shelley shrugged and walked over to the car. Smells like cheap cologne, she said as she sat in the passenger seat. You drive, she snapped. I don’t want to be in trouble if you get pulled over by the police.

You think I can drive? Randal asked.

If you can drive a motorbike, you can drive a car. Is that the thing?

Same thing, isn’t it?

You ever driven a car or a motorbike?

Shut up and go.

Where to?

Back to Wildemarsh. I’ll show you where.

THE TRIP TO WILDEMARSH was quiet, or at least Randal thought it was. He had a vague memory of Shelley trying to say something, but he was brooding over his bike. The fuck, he thought he heard Shelley say as they turned into the outskirts of the city.

What? he asked.

Said nothing, Shelley said. Are you going to answer my question?

What question?

Where did you come from before going to the beach?

Nowhere. Where do you want to go?

I told you some miles back. I’m going to the Docks.

Which docks?

"The Docks, on West Twelve. She rolled her eyes. I said that too."

I was thinking about something else while you were talking.

About what happened to you back there?

About what happened to my bike back there.

Of course. Shelley sniffed. You were nearly killed by a man who tried to set fire to your bike and suddenly you weren’t there and this total stranger was laying there instead with the bullet holes that should have killed you and—

Wait. You mean that was the arsehole who torched my ride?

Shelley shook her head. West Twelve. I’ve got some rooms there. You can crash for a couple of days if you want. At least until we figure out what’s going on.

I got a place.

And you got a bike that’s burned, and you got a corpse that’s beside it that’s just like you, and let’s not forget, you got at least one arsehole with a gun who is looking to kill you.

Randal sighed. Well what do you suggest?

I suggest you go to your place and get whatever stuff you need before everybody learns you’re dead. You got family about?

No, Randal said.

Well that’s a good thing, isn’t it? West Twelve.

Chapter 2: Damien’s Morning

DAMIEN DEVINE’S OFFICE was on the third top floor of the third tallest building in Wildemarsh. It was alright for now, but Damien was still on his way up, like the lackey before him hoped about himself.

You’re sure about this? Damien sat at his desk with his back to the window and the Wildemarsh skyline.

Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t, Tyler Butterly stood a whole five-foot three in an out-of-date dark blue suit making Damien’s otherwise tidy office look untidy.

Of course you wouldn’t, Damien said. I’m sorry I doubted. You’ve been incredibly helpful to me, and I won’t forget that. All night, you said?

All night.

Well thank you. Wait outside for a little bit.

Tyler left the office. Damien picked up the phone and dialled 9.

Hello, Angela’s sweet voice greeted him.

Bring me my calendar. I want to see what I have on today.

There’s not much, Angela answered. Just a meeting with the architects at eleven.

Bring it in anyway, Damien said. I want to see you with it.

Alright.

The phone line went dead and Angela came into the office some seconds later. She had that sway that caught Damien’s attention when she first started working for Ludhill Engineering. There was also something else in her gait that convinced Damien that Tyler was right.

Did you have a nice night last night? Damien asked.

It was alright.

I’m sorry I couldn’t come. Family things, you know.

Your sister, Angela said. I understand.

Where did you go?

Just to the Red Cow for a couple of drinks, then I went home.

Like I said, I’m sorry I couldn’t have been there. Damien’s eyes wandered down Angela’s body and then back to her face. I like being with you. You know that, don’t you?

Angela nodded. She looked a little sad.

I want to take you to dinner tonight. Damien’s hands slapped his desk. I want to make up for our silly argument. I was wrong and I acted badly. With my sister’s dramas and nearly being hit by a bus... It doesn’t matter. Anything I could say would be a feeble excuse for my inexcusable behaviour.

That bus was frightening, Angela said. I was sure it was going to hit you.

Well it didn’t, Damien said. How about this. To make up for last night, I’ll take you to see that new musical you’ve been wanting to see. Then I’ll take you back to our flat near the theatre and make love to you until the sun comes up. You take tomorrow off. I’ll take the day off and we’ll spend it together.

Angela flushed. I don’t know, she said. It’d be the first full day we’ve had together, and you said you’re not ready for commitment.

Damien smiled. I’ve been thinking that I might like to explore whether you’re somebody I’d like to commit to, or not. What do you think?

Angela bit her lip and nodded.

Go organise the tickets for tonight. I’d like A-Reserve seats, but somewhere discreet. You know, a little dark and naughty.

Angela smiled and nodded. I’ll organise it at lunch.

Go organise it now, Damien said. We’ll say it’s time preparing for the architects.

Alright. Angela closed the door as she left.

Damien pushed his chair away from the desk and sighed. The bitch, he muttered, unsure what to feel. He never intended to trust her. He only ever wanted her to be convenient. She was nice enough, attractive enough, but no longer convenient enough.

The door opened and Tyler came into the office.

Close the door, Damien said grimly.

Tyler obeyed. Tyler always obeyed. Tyler was obedient. Why couldn’t his women be the same.

You know that Portia is pregnant? Damien asked.

Tyler nodded.

I’m grateful for your news, although it grieves me somewhat. I would never have noticed if you hadn’t told me.

I’ve dealt with the fella, Tyler said. He won’t be fucking anybody again.

Initiative? Damien placed his hands on his stomach and stared at his desk. And swift action. He looked at Tyler. "I’ll