Love Cursed

By Gail Johnson

                                                       Genies grant you three wishes, right? But what do they expect in return?

When Langley Roberts releases a genie from a vintage purse, he expects her help in ending the witch's spell that trapped him inside. How's she supposed to do that? Oh, sure, just fall in love with him! Ha! So not happening.

 

Genie, Russell Carr's experience with women taught him their love can be bought. So all he has to do is give Langley three wishes, and like other women, she'll fall in love, returning him to his life as a successful bootlegger in 1929.

 

Langley's not playing the love game, but her heart goes out to Russ for being dumped into her world. After all, she understands what it's like to be abandoned, so she offers her skills as a researcher and genetic detective.

 

Together, they discover a witch's clues to help unravel the spell. But hell on wheels, if they don't unearth an ancient death curse with the power to erase them and their families from existence. How are they supposed to fix that?

 

Love Cursed, Book One in the Bourbon Trail series, is a sweet, contemporary fantasy with a time traveler, and a happily ever after. A little bit of romance, a little bit of fantasy, a little bit of mystery, and a lot of sass. Your magical journey is just a keystroke away.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gail Johnson
• Release date: Dec 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215388426

Book preview

Love Cursed

Gail Johnson

Copyright © 2022 by Gail Johnson

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electric or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission from the publisher. This book is a work of fiction. The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Cover Design: Kate Farlow/Y'all That Graphic

Contents

1.Do you believe in magic?

2.If you don’t believe in magic, you’ll never find it.

3.Children find magic because they believe in it.

4.A love spell? Get real.

5.Some people are magic, others are just fakes.

6.Every day is full of magic.

7.Sometimes fantasy comes true.

8.Love holds its own kind of magic.

9.Magic sneaks up and fills us with joy.

10.What spell are you under?

11.Today’s realities were yesterday’s magic.

12.The magic within our hearts finds true love.

13.You can’t just poof loving someone from thin air.

14.Spend some time appreciating magic.

15.There's magic in our genes, and in our genies. Genealogy. Genie-ology.

16.Life is full of magical moments.

17. When all seems lost, look for magic in your heart.

18.Some things are more magical than others.

19.You have to believe in magic to find it.

20.You don’t need magic to disappear, but you do need somewhere to go.

21.The future can be predicted, but it’s not ours to see.

22.Listen to your heart because it holds true magic.

23.This magic moment will have to last me forever.

24.There’s always hope. And there’s always magic.

25.Seeing the future can be painful.

26.Let the final fight begin.

27.She’s magic with a capital M.

Epilogue

Meet the Author

Chapter one

Do you believe in magic?

Langley

Where the hell was a fairy godmother when you needed one? Mitzi's Pawn and Consignment Shop certainly didn't have one on standby, and neither had any of the other three stores I'd visited today. All around me were bins of shirts, dresses, hats, kitchenware, and a glass case with old jewelry. A set of wedding rings held my attention, causing me to wonder if they once offered shiny promises like mine had.

Ma’am, said a store employee. Can I show you something from the case?

I stared at him a few seconds before my brain kicked into gear. I’m hunting for a flapper-style purse. Where are the pocketbooks located?

He pointed toward the left of the store. They’re near the men’s restroom.

I headed that way, the direction clear with eau de pee-pee providing smelly clues. If I didn’t find a purse here, I’d have to find something else to give my aunt. I hadn’t expected a flapper pocketbook a hard item to find, but I had nothing to show for my efforts. I couldn’t just poof one out of thin air like a fairy godmother. And if a fairy godmother showed up today, she’d have a cush job. I’m not like Cinderella requiring a fancy party outfit, and most important of all, a Prince Charming. I’d only ask my fairy godmother for a vintage purse for Aunt Gena’s birthday present.

As soon as I reached the bins, I sifted through the first one, piling discards to the side. Should I check them all in case there’s a gazillion dollars tucked away in one? Yea, right?

This stack held vinyl purses only. Nothing of interest.

Next stack?

First purse was too new.

Another too frayed.

Teeth marks? Guess someone’s puppy nibbled on it. What a story this bag could tell. It had belonged. Not now, though. Now it was a reject.

Like me. Abandoned.

The next one had a damaged strap.

After that, a missing clasp.

This one, ugly as hell.

It was like the forces of the universe kept me from finding what I needed.

Across from me, a brown-haired woman with a carbon copy kindergarten-aged child bulldozed through items. You’d think the pocketbooks were hot potatoes the way the kid tossed them. Some she stacked in a clump resembling mini mountains. Others she flung to the floor.

The corner of a purple bag peeked from under the nearest purse dune, and I slid it toward me, inch by inch, so as not to tumble the entire heap. I wanted it because it matched Aunt Gena’s favorite shawl. Before I checked it for flaws, teeny kid fingers clenched the handle and wrenched it away. Mine! she said, stuck out her tongue, then tapped her mother on the arm. Mommy. Its gots a pretty fairy. The girl’s lips stretched into a grin a politician would envy. Would it work on her mama?

From a shopping cart, the mama withdrew a miniature pink pouch with a yarn tuxedo cat coiled on the front. But Ava, you already chose this one. Which do you want?

Ava shoved a tree stand adorned with hats, slamming it onto the floor, blocking the aisle. You’re mean. She sniffed her nose in fake crying, not pleased she had to choose. I wants a unicorn purse. She puckered her lower lip, as if she were on the verge of a nervous breakdown, before slinging purses until they covered the floor, three-deep in some spots.

I eyeballed the discards on the floor. Might be easier to hunt through those. A hint of gold fringe winked from under an unsightly crocodile green handbag. The fringe glowed as if covered in lights.

I retrieved it and held it hidden in front of me as I wandered to the cookware aisle. I examined it with my back to Ava. What a find! Kind of flapper-like. Meticulous beadwork formed the shape of a tree in bloom. Aunt Gena would love this. The price sticker said this treasure belonged to me if I paid twenty-five dollars.

Ava screamed, Mine! as she stretched out her leg and kicked the table, scooting it into the nearby bin.

Whatever. Not my kid. I rechecked the price tag. What? Five dollars! Even better. I must have misread earlier. It’s like the purse begged me to buy it.

My fingers fanned through the fringe, searching for missing strands or beads. Three cracked pink beads marred a blossom, but I knew my bead box at home contained enough matching ones to mend it. The lining inside better be usable.

When I pressed the ends of the clasps to open the bag, they wouldn’t budge. An orange-yellowish tint covered them. Had that been there a moment ago? Were they rusted together? I scraped at the fastening with the end of my truck keys, but the clasps stayed shut. Would something greasy loosen them? What was in my purse that might work? I scooted stuff around and found a tube of ChapStick. I removed it and wiped it on the clasps before shoving the key between them again. Darn. Still stuck. Wrapping the hem of my blouse around the fasteners, I squeezed until my fingertips hurt, but bit by bit, the clasps spread slightly apart.

Outside, a fiery bolt of lightning flashed, sending a streak of light across the sky, causing the store’s patrons to jump. Holy shit! How had a storm moved in so fast? As if the lightning hadn’t done enough to set customers on edge, a few seconds later a deafening boom of thunder rattled the store’s windows, and merchandise teetered on shelves before tumbling to the floor. Shoppers screamed.

Mommy! Mommy! Help! Ava hurled a handful of handbags into their shopping cart.

Oh, sweetie, it’s going to rain, that’s all. You’re okay. Let’s take a photo of you with your purse. The mother posed her smartphone, ready to snap away.

Ava shook her head, then stomped her feet. I’m scared. Help! Help!

The mother brushed hair behind Ava’s ears and said, I know what you need, baby doll. A Happy Meal.

Yes, Mommy, Ava danced around their shopping cart, singing Happy Meal. Happy Meal.

I returned my attention to the clasps and shoved the key with all my strength, wedging it in between the two sides. The movement opened the purse, which emitted an orangish, stale-smelling, serpentine smoke. What the hell? Lightning zipped across the sky outside again, while inside, a crackling whoosh of air ruffled my hair, and the smoke thickened, blinding me for a second.

I swished my hand left and right, swirling the smoke away. Wait. Had I seen something?

On the pots and pans table? Nuh-uh! A person? Ava?

No, much larger than Ava, adult-sized.

Smoke in the shape of a man!!

With a sparkly tangerine-colored translucent glow glimmering in, out, in. Visible. Invisible. Visible.

Oh. My. God. He seemed to appear out of nowhere and holy hell, he’s wearing a striped red and white onesie outfit, like those old-fashioned bathing suits from the Prohibition era. So ridiculous. But then I noticed his bod. What a magnificent specimen. Muscular, toned. Oooo wee!!!!

But why would a drop-dead gorgeous hunk sprawl catawampus across the table? He’d lost it for sure. But other than missing his meds, the guy checked all the boxes on my sexy as hell list, making all my wet dreams come true. A fairy godmother’s answer to an erotic wish I hadn’t even asked for.

His slicked back straight hair with a side part reminded me of Clark Gable, of all people. But this guy had a long front curl that jiggled a bit in the breeze from the air-conditioner, inviting me to feather my fingers through it.

No way.

I’d never come on to a hot guy straddling a table filled with cookware. He glanced my way, and something sizzled between us. It skittered up my spine and clouded my mind. Attraction or just the fact his appearance was… unique?

And what’s up with that bright orange halo? All around his body. Wait. How would you circle your body in a halo? ESP? Kinetic powers of some sort? A magic trick?

The guy’s hands punched the air, displaying the veins in his well-developed forearms while he fought an invisible force. Zindra! Stop!

I tiptoed backward, ramming my butt into the table, shaking the dish exhibit. I bet the smoke bothered him, too. What’s a Zindra?

I must have said that out loud because his head snapped in my direction and he stood like a statue staring trancelike. After a moment, he nodded as if he carried on a conversation with an unseen person.

What a kook, and I could’ve sworn no human being graced the table when I was opening the purse. Stripes. Prisoners wore stripes. Was this guy a jail bird?

Nope, prison outfits didn’t include red. At least, I didn’t think so. Or shorts. This guy was just a fashion-challenged man who resembled a giant bumblebee dressed in the wrong color and missing a stinger on his behind. But damn, the muscles on the guy were nothing to laugh about; they made me think things I shouldn’t. Impure. Inappropriate. X-rated.

My eyes skimmed his squared jaws, his full lips, his gorgeous eyelashes. They stopped at his scowl. Then I considered his presence might hold danger.

He rubbed his forehead. Where am I?

Should I answer? What did the police suggest doing in these kinds of situations? I saw no weapon. No bulges inside his disgusting outfit. Well, except for the bump low at his crotch, which was not in the shape of a gun. He was packing a penis for sure.

He pushed pans to the side. Whinny?

He acted more disoriented or drugged than harmful. That’s it. He’s high on OxyContin or some hallucinogenic drug. Two women strolled by, and I expected them to laugh or raise eyebrows. Nope. No reaction. Why weren’t they concerned this guy had made a sudden and strange appearance? You’d think he was invisible.

Pans slammed together when he dangled his legs to the side of the table before he jumped, causing an avalanche of cookware to follow him to the floor, banging against the concrete. Where’s Whinny?

I looked around for the reactions of other shoppers, only to hear from the salesperson, Ma’am, please treat our merchandise like it was your own. I opened my mouth to answer, but a banana plummeted from an iron skillet and skidded across the floor, landing inches from my feet. What the hell?

The man stood in front of me, picked up the banana and turned it over in his hand. Okay, he had surely seen bananas before. From Zindra’s party? He swung his head from side to side, his shimmery halo still in place. Whinny, where are you? He checked under the table, straightened, and scanned the tiny store. Whinny!

No one owned up to being Whinny. No one paid any attention to him. Actually, neither the six other shoppers nor the clerk acted as if they had heard him.

On the table, the kitchenware shuffled, and pans banged into each other, making a lot of racket. I waited for the clerk to say something, but she picked up a telephone instead. Was she calling the police?

The man peeked over dividers, causing them to wobble. Whinny? His eyes searched and moved on.

Mommy, can I play hide and seek with that lady? Ava skipped to my side.

It’s not me, it’s him. I pointed to the bumblebee guy.

Ava said, I don’t see anybody. Is he a ghost? Her mother rushed over and grabbed Ava’s arm, leading her out the door, Ava’s handbag collection forgotten.

He placed his hands against his forehead. Are you the one Zindra said to kiss?

Hell no, buster. You come near me, and I’ll kick your itty-bitty red bumblebee balls.

That stopped him in his tracks. If it’s not you, who?

Who what? I retreated behind the pans table and lifted the purse, ready to slug him. I’d rather explain to the police that I hit him with a pocketbook than I destroyed his family jewels. Anyway, I’d never kicked anyone in the crotch. What if I missed? What if I broke my foot? I don’t know any Zindra.

The strange guy stared at the beaded bag I held. Zindra’s purse. He stepped toward me, reaching for it. Holy hell. As I sprinted further away, he said, Please return it. It’s the spell vessel.

Spell vessel??? I zig zagged through the store toward the cashier, hoping I could get checked out and away from this looney bin. He took steps in my direction until a landslide of pans cascaded from the table in the back of the store, halting him in mid-stride. He returned to the cookware table, dropped to his knees in front of it, and wrapped his arms around empty air. Whinny, are you okay?

Did I just see a kangaroo hop off the pan table? A green kangaroo encircled by an orange halo wearing a saucepan backwards on its head. But then it disappeared. What’s wrong with me?

Time to go home.

Or to the emergency room for a psych eval.

Chapter two

If you don’t believe in magic, you’ll never find it.

Langley

A purse snatcher. A spoiled brat, and now this storm. Rain splashed on my windshield faster than the wipers could swish it away. Thank goodness I’d made it home. Water gathered in gigantic puddles along the path to my apartment building door, but I decided to go for it and sprint inside. Of course, that was the moment a sudden wind bent trees over backward and pitched garbage cans and scraps of litter across the parking lot. The truck door caught in the wind and weighed a ton as I slammed it shut. For an encore, the wind twisted my umbrella inside out. The weather acted like a spoiled Ava.

I carefully stepped into the lobby, sidestepping pools of water on the ceramic tile where people had trekked inside. How lucky, the elevator waited for me. I tapped the sixth-floor button, and read a notice above the elevator panel reminding residents the maintenance fee increased in August. Gee, more money I don’t have, but then I remembered I’d be back in my farmhouse before that happened. At the third floor, the elevator stopped, and the doors slid open. I glimpsed a striped outfit encased in an orangish aura around a beaming-in-and-out body.

Oh, my god! The wacky bumblebee guy from the store! How’d he get here? Why was he here? My finger trembled as it jabbed the button to close the door. Had he left while I paid? I hadn’t noticed anyone trailing me. How had he gotten all the way inside my building ahead of me? I needed to call the police.

The door almost glided shut when the end of a traffic cone-colored cane protruded through the crack, prying the door open! I held the shut door button, hoping it would somehow work.

Hold on! a raspy voice yelled from the hallway.

The voice didn’t match his. Was someone else there, or was he trying to disguise himself? Well, if he was, he shouldn’t be in that striped get-up.

The door slithered open inch by inch, revealing bigger and bigger bits of orange.

A weapon. I needed a weapon. I raised my dripping umbrella over my head, ready to attack, while a knot of fright formed in my stomach. Through the crack, I glimpsed a human-sized pumpkin with arms and legs and a bucket. Mrs. Sutton, of course.

By herself? I stepped into the hallway. Yep. There was no red-striped sexy stalker in sight. Maybe I was seeing things. Are you alone? I searched the hallway in all directions, my umbrella still in the attack position.

Mrs. Sutton’s eyebrows shot up, and she scrunched her mouth as she stared at my raised weapon. Someone bothering you? The five-gallon paint bucket she always carried thumped my thigh as she switched it to her right hand, causing me to stumble against the side of the elevator. Want me to take care of him? she asked. I know some fancy who-do-ko moves. Watch this, and she lifted one foot off the floor and kicked. I got a shooter, too.

A gun? And was she talking about karate kicks? She was harmless, or I’d worry. No, no! It’s okay, Mrs. Sutton. Nothing’s wrong. The door closed, and I waited for her to tell me which floor she wanted. I knew where she lived but she often traveled throughout the building, visiting people at random. Uninvited and usually not appreciated.

Glad everything’s okay. Her hand churned through the pail, agitating items up and sideways.

Had she seen the guy? Was anyone else waiting with you?

"I’m the only one getting on. She removed a plastic Walgreens bag and arranged it over the top of her glow-in-the dark, sweet potato orange wig, tying the handles together under her chin. Her spiffy wig dangled an inch too far to the left, exposing the gray hair beneath.

Should I tell her that her ‘hair’ was hanging crooked? A throbbing headache edged across my forehead. My stomach joined the pain parade and rumbled, emitting a groan loud enough for Mrs. Sutton to hear.

She puckered her lips. You don’t look so good. Your face is as pale as my homemade pie dough. The walk-in clinic across the street stays open until eight. You know that doctor who has his own TV show works there now? Stay away from him. He’s handsome, but I think he’s got more than healing on his mind. She wiggled her eyebrows. Of course, at my age, you can’t be too picky. I should go with you.

No, I’m not sick. I had no clue who she was talking about.

That’s good. What scared you? She adjusted the plastic bag on her head, aligning the wig into the correct position.

I thought I saw—

Would she believe a man in a striped onesie stalked me? Doubtful. —a lizard. They scare me to death. I backed into the corner and shivered so she'd believe me.

Mrs. Sutton consulted her bucket and retrieved a huge macs and cheese hued fly swatter. The thing could kill a pterodactyl with one whack. I didn’t know how old Mrs. Sutton was, but I figured she had first-hand experience with pterodactyl eradication. She parted her feet in attack mode, ready to fight off an enemy or deliver a ‘who-do-ko move’ and brandished the swatter in the air. I’m not afraid of guykos. Where is it?

I bet she meant gecko. She’d mixed up a commercial with whatever else roamed around inside her head. She’d called my bluff. What should I do? There. I pointed toward a scratch on the door.

She peered over her glasses and wielded her plastic artillery against the spot with all the power of a gladiator. Her glasses swung from her face and hung on the plastic bag knots under her chin. That should kill it. She shoved the glasses back on her nose and squinted at the door. No smashed bodies. I scared the bejesus out of it, so it’s scampered away. She returned her killing machine to her bucket collection. You’re safe. What floor?

I pointed to the number six lit up on the panel. She knew where I lived, so I wasn’t sure why she asked. Memory issues? She hit the buttons for the fifth, seventh, and the rooftop with her fist. Guess she loved to travel.

She hadn’t seen the outrageous bumblebee guy either. Were my job worries and the divorce causing me to imagine people who weren’t there? The elevator jerked to a stop at the fifth floor. Mrs. Sutton had punched it in, so I waited for her to get off. Instead of exiting, she yanked a set of binoculars from her bucket stash, leaned her body into the landing, and imitated a determined bird watcher before saying, No one here. Let’s go, and jabbed the manual override button to shut the door.

No one here? Why’d you say that? She shrugged her shoulders as the door closed. When we arrived at my floor, Mrs. Sutton whipped out her arm, blocking my exit. She stepped into the hallway and scrutinized it. All clear.

She was correct. No one was in sight, so I got off. As the doors slid shut, Mrs. Sutton added, The bumblebee guy won’t hurt you. Have a good day.

I froze. What? Wait! You saw the man earlier? She raised her eyebrows and tilted her head but didn’t answer. She and the elevator continued their ascent. But she saw him! She saw him! Tears clouded my eyes. He was real. He was real, but that's not a good thing.

So why hadn’t people at the store seen him? Why would she tell me he wouldn’t hurt me? And why did she call him a bumblebee guy, too?

Did she know him? I knew everyone who lived here. He was not one of the residents. So why had he followed me? Could he be hiding somewhere in the hallway? Waiting for me. Fear zapped the strength from my legs, and I almost fell. What did he want?

He was stalking me, for sure. Okay, no fooling around now. I was going to call the police as soon as I got locked inside my apartment.

A muted thump thudded down the empty hallway to my left. Another muffled clatter sounded from the other direction. I agonized until I became dizzy and leaned against the wall. Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out.

I looked around both areas. No one. No pools of water or wet footprints were on the tile floor, either. Would I make it to the safety of my unit? With my back inches from the wall, I sidestepped toward my door, eyeballing every nook and cranny in both directions. Slow and quiet, I lowered my hand into my coat pocket, and wrapped my fingers around my key, ready to use it. My body stiffened, waiting for movement. Nothing. I skittered like a mouse to the fake palm tree and lingered behind it, peering out. Nothing. With my back against the wall, I tiptoed three more steps before I hurtled across the hallway and stood in front of my apartment.

The key stuck in the lock. I jiggled it in desperation. Finally, the latch clicked open, but the door dragged on the floor, slowing my entry. Damn the janitor. Why hadn’t he fixed the door when I asked?

Quick. Quick. Quick. I rushed in. The door boomed close. Dropping my wet umbrella and bag to the floor, I lifted my elbow and flicked on the light. Dumped my bags on the floor. Engaged the deadbolt. All within a split second.

Bracing the door for extra protection seemed like a good idea. A kitchen chair should do it. When I turned toward my cramped efficiency kitchen, a shifting shadow at the table halted me in my tracks with my breath wedged in my throat.

Nothing. Whew, just my imagination. I grabbed a chair and carried it toward the door. A sudden pop from behind caused me to jump and my heart rate rose as I tried to identify the sound. It wasn’t a gun. More like a cork being removed from a bottle. What should I do? I couldn’t stand here and just let someone attack me.

I spun around, using the chair as a shield and… holy shit! There at my kitchen table sat the bumblebee guy!

Where had I put my mace? Not on the cabinet. Oh yeah, it’s on the flower stand under the window.

I dropped the chair and ran to the stand to snatch it up. My hand wobbled, and the mace fell onto the floor. It rolled until it stopped—oh my god—right next to the intruder’s foot. He stared at it and back at me, picked it up and offered it to me. Was it a trick? Didn’t he know what mace could do? I stepped closer, yanked it from his hand, and aimed it in his direction while yelling, Help! Would someone hear me? The walls seemed thin sometimes, but most people were at work right now. I shouted again with all my might.

Don’t move or I’ll fill your face with mace! I withdrew my cell phone from my pocket and told Siri to call 911. As soon as a voice answered on the phone line, I said, There’s a red-striped thief in my apartment. I tapped the phone’s speaker button. Their voice might scare him.

What’s your location? the 911 operator asked.

443 Beech Tree Road. Apartment 609. It’s the complex down the street from the police department.

From the phone, the calm male voice asked, Are you in imminent harm?

I’m holding mace on him, so I doubt he’ll attempt anything. I held my arm stiff, ready to send a steady spray his way.

From the phone, the dispatcher said, Are you able to reach a safe place?

There’s no need. I have him cornered but get here as soon as you can.

Your name, please? the operator asked.

Langley Roberts. Please hurry! This guy followed me home and broke in. My gaze fell to an opened bottle of bourbon and three shot glasses half-filled with liquid. They were not there when I left home earlier. What kind of pervert broke into someone’s house to drink evening cocktails?

The pervert grinned and gulped down every drop in his shot glass. He had a heart-stopping grin for sure, which I bet he used to get his way. And without a care, he refilled his glass, then sniffed the liquid before taking a sip. I’m sorry for appearing like this.

You will be, because I’m talking to the police. Why did he pretend to engage in polite