Feud: Season One: Feud, #1

By Holter Boyd

WELCOME to the twisted world of Sunshine Beach.

 

If you wanna swallow it, snort it or screw it, you came to the right place. Unless, you're Charlotte "Mac" Wyatt.

 

The Wyatt witches and the psychic Selfridges had put paid to their Feud for Sunshine Beach so long as Mac stays gone.

 

'Cept, when a black cloud follows you everywhere, eventually your magically tattooed bad girl self better find shelter.

 

So, it's back home. To your family. But, please, please, please not back to bad boy Gregg Selfridge. Farm hand, bare knuckle boxer, pyrokinetic and trying damn hard to stay away from the bottle.

 

The sound of thunder. The electricity in the air. The temperature's rising. A storm is coming to Sunshine Beach. A storm named Mac Wyatt.

 

Welcome to the FEUD.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hotler Boyd
• Release date: Nov 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215485903

Holter Boyd

HOLTER BOYD was born in Brooklyn, NY. He’s lived his whole damn life on the same block except for a hazily recollected decade exploring his roots in the Deep South. He earns his living as a carpenter and house painter. Since he barely sleeps, the night often finds him writing sci-fi, fantasy and horror in his workshop. He owns a cat but doesn’t know its name because he respects its privacy.

Book preview

Feud: Season One

Feud, Volume 1

Holter Boyd

Published by Hotler Boyd, 2023.

FEUD

SEASON ONE

By

Holter Boyd

Table of Contents

Chapter One: Welcome Wagon

Chapter Two: Unfriendly Reminders

Chapter Three: You Take What You Can And You Leave The Rest

Chapter Four: Rise Up, Fall Down

Chapter Five: The Girls Of Summer

Chapter Six: I’m Not Mad, I’m Just Disappointed

Chapter Seven: Compromised

Chapter Eight: This In Going To Hurt You More Than It Hurts Me

Chapter Nine: Play The Hand You Deal

Chapter Ten: Drinking, Buddy

Chapter Eleven: Side Piece

Chapter Twelve: The Friendship Has Sailed

Chapter Thirteen: Inherent Risk

Chapter Fourteen: The Hour Of Alchemy

Chapter Fifteen: Cutback

Chapter Sixteen: Foot Loose

Chapter Seventeen: Pants On Fire

Chapter Eighteen: Cheap Shots

Chapter Nineteen: Lives In The Fast Lane

Chapter Twenty: Late To Your Own Funeral

Chapter Twenty One: In For A Penny

Chapter Twenty Two: A Mother Knows

Chapter Twenty Three: Spare The Rod

Chapter Twenty Four: Skeletons In The Closet

Chapter Twenty Five: Witch, Please

Chapter Twenty Six: Open Secrets

Chapter Twenty Seven: Mac’s Bad Week

Chapter Twenty Eight: Gregg’s Bad Break

Chapter Twenty Nine: Your Place Or Mine

Chapter Thirty: My Brother’s Keeper

Chapter Thirty One: Make Your Mark

Chapter Thirty Two: If She Was A Snake, She Would Have Bit Me

Chapter Thirty Three: The G(Uilt) Spot

Chapter Thirty Four: As Unlikely As It Is Inevitable

Chapter Thirty Five: I’d Never Say Anything Bad Behind You Back  To Your Face

Chapter Thirty Six: Scissors

Chapter Thirty Seven: Burning Foam

Chapter Thirty Eight: Euphoric Recall

Chapter Thirty Nine: As Above, So Below

Chapter Forty: You Hear That? What? Shh, You Hear That? I Don’t Hear Any- Oh, God. Look Out!

Chapter Forty One: Hindsight Is 20/...

Chapter Forty Two: Ain’t No Pork Up In The Pan

Chapter Forty Three: Love Like The Ocean Cannot Be Contained

Chapter Forty Four: We Got Your Back... Way Back

Chapter Forty Five: If It’s Gonna Be Your Or Me, It’s Gonna Be You

Chapter Forty Six: Back. Up.

Chapter Forty Seven: The Red Line

Chapter Forty Eight: Believers

Chapter Forty Nine: Everything In Its Right Place

Chapter Fifty: Too Much Of A Good Thing

Epilogue 1 Of 3: Selfridges’s Own

Epilogue 2 Of 3: Wyatt Brand

Epilogue 3 Of 3: Rachel & Paul

CHAPTER ONE:

WELCOME WAGON

Is that a fact?

That’s a fact, Darla Selfridge said to her nineteen-year-old twin brother, Dash. Three breasts.

No, Dash said and took a pull from his pint bottle of Selfridge’s Own. Half corn sour mash and half mystic water from the Selfridge’s underground well, it went down smooth. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. Then, he turned and watched as a pretty brunette in a bikini top walked by and down Liberty Street, the main drag of Sunshine Beach. The first day of Memorial Day weekend and they were already out in force. Renting rooms by the week. Hanging in the surf shops. Nosh-nosh-noshing in the restaurants. It was all coeds. Beach bodies. Tourists. It was like all of South Carolina was a winter slingshot and summer let it fly. Shops were reopening. Bars. Nightclubs. The Boardwalk. And SB was ready to ply its trade, arms wide open. That meant good times, great nights and most importantly, money. For the town sure, but for bootleggers like the Selfridges, most definitely.

Darla wapped Dash on his meaty shoulder and he stopped just before another swallow. Are you listening to me?

Yeah, he said, head turning once more to follow a redhead in Daisy Dukes. But, it’s bullshit. Has to be.

Nah, I’m serious, Darla said, pulling her long brown hair into a ponytail. Witches have an extra teat and the Wyatt Family women are witches so they have three breasts.

Dash passed Darla the bottle. Small in stature, she reached up, grabbed it and took a hefty swig.

I’d like to see that, Dash said, smirking. His gold tooth twinkled in the sun.

See, I don’t think you do, Darla said. Is the third under one of the standard two? Is it on top of it? To the side? I’m not into chicks but if I was, I think the whole thing would skeeve me out.

Across the street, a clutch of twenty-something guys and gals walked by and entered Pete’s Saloon. The Selfridge twins, having just made their delivery of Selfridge’s Own, and now in the parking lot, sat back against their panel van and watched them go. Man, this year’s crop of summer people was banging. And the summer hasn’t even started.

Then why bring it up? Dash asked, eyeing a redhead in pedal pushers. Two tits, three tits. The fuck you care?

Can’t trust a women who doesn’t have the right amount of parts. It’s fishy.

The truce has been in effect for four years as of today, Dash said. Everybody’s making money. Nobody’s getting beat up or killed by Wyatt magic or Selfridge psionics. And nobody outside our families knows about our abilities. Sunshine Beach is an oasis. You’re always looking for problems.

Am not, Darla pouted. Cousin Virgil still ain’t allowed back in Sunshine Beach and Cousin Lizzy is still dead. Or did you forget?

I ain’t forgot, Dash said taking the bottle. But, that’s why we got to have the truce. You remember why Virgil had to clear town? You wanna go back to that?

For a second, she considered it then said, No. I just don’t like them Wyatts. With their spooky magic and Wyatt Brand bootleg rum. They’re the competition for Chrissakes. I know Uncle Brandon is all like, ‘We made a deal. There’s room for both of us,’ but fuck that. You know? Family is family.

A Ford pickup pulled into the Pete’s Saloon parking lot and the driver killed the engine. Dash’s eyes settled on it but when the glare from the driver’s side mirror beamed at him, he turned back to Darla.

Look, Dash said. We’re rolling out the new batch this weekend. There’s no way the Wyatt’s liquor can stack up against our own. Pretty soon, we’ll be putting them out of business. The right way. With no bloodshed.

Yeah, whatever. Pass me the hooch.

Dash forked it over and Darla took another glug. A couple of hard bodies walked by then down the street. College kids probably. And Goddamn look at the pecs on that one. Growl.

Come on, big sister, Dash ribbed. Let’s you and me blow off afternoon chores. I say we hit the boardwalk and see if we can’t go score us some tail. Then, we take the long way back to the farm.

There’d be hell to pay. Brandon Selfridge did not suffer fools. But, they could just say there was beach traffic and probably that wouldn’t even be a lie.

Dash took the bottle from his sister and brought it up to his lips. He paused as a coltish blonde woman, probably in her early thirties and very tattooed, got out of the pickup. She dropped her keys after locking the door and bent down to pick them up.

Now, that is what I’m talking about, Dash said. You see the ass on her?

Darla scrunched her face. It’s not that great.

Are you kidding? Dash said and the blonde stood up straight. That’s like a perfect apple. You know what I could do with...

Probably not mu- What is it?

All the color had drained from Dash’s face. He lowered the bottle and it slipped from his hand and shattered on the pavement. The blonde headed for Pete’s Saloon and Dash watched her go.

What? Darla said. What is it?

That woman, Dash said. The blonde.

What about her?

That’s Mac Wyatt.

No way, Darla said, eyes squinting, then going wide. Her mouth loosened at the hinges. That can’t be. She’s not allowed back to Sunshine Beach. The truce. That was the condition. Virgil had to go. And so did that backstabbing bitch.

The whole truce could fall apart, Dash said. We gotta go tell Uncle Brandon. He’s gonna be pissed.

Forget Uncle Brandon. We gotta take care of this before Cousin Gregg finds out. He’s gonna fucking murder somebody.

Fuck, Dash said, knowing she was right. You see if she’s still wearing that damn invisibility ring?

Can’t tell.  But, you know what we gotta do, Darla said and balled a fist.

And having had the entire conversation in their heads via their telepathy, their one psychic power, Dash said out loud, Go get the knives.

CHAPTER TWO:

UNFRIENDLY REMINDERS

Mac Wyatt, Charlotte Mackenzie Wyatt to her friends- though she was pretty sure she had none- looked around Pete’s Saloon and hoped that maybe, just maybe, she was wrong on that score. Maybe Paul Chambers was still around. But, after four years of living the life she’d led, she’d learned to expect the worst.

She walked up to the bar, which was crowded with half-drunk summer people and tourists. She squeezed in between a group of college kids, swept her wavy, blonde hair completely from her field of vision and signaled for the bartender. When the perky little bartender came over, Mac ordered a beer, no Wyatt or Selfridge liquor for her, and asked her if Paul was still around. The bartender looked at Mac without recognition, twirling the name around her head.

Paul? the bartender said. She looked a little young to be working bar back and Mac was fast giving up hope. Paul? Paul? Oh, you mean ‘Paul.’

Yeah, Mac said, Does he still work here?

You a friend of Paul’s?

I used to drink here, Mac said, Back when they called it The Sandbar.

Before my time, the young bartender said. That was before the town renovation?

Yeah, Mac said acclimating to her surroundings. This place used to be a real bucket of blood, you know. Liquor in the front. Poker in the rear.

What?

Forget it. So, Paul?

She gave Mac a quizzical look. You must have been gone a long time.

More or less.

Yeah, the bartender said. No. Paul doesn’t work today. Paul’s shift starts tomorrow. You’re not close are you?

We used to be. Why?

The bartender smirked. No reason. Yeah, come back tomorrow.

Much obliged, Mac said and took her beer and looked for a place in the saloon where she could drink it.

Settling at a vacant table by the bathroom, Mac took a sip and people watched. God, how this town has changed, she thought. Gone are the gin mills and the strip clubs and the casinos. Now, it’s all Spring Break and happy-go-lucky. Not an ounce of danger, she mused somewhere between contented and disappointed. She wanted to ponder it, but another thought broke in. How long do you want to put this off? You came home for a reason. …Maybe after this beer. Or the next one. Or the one after that.

Turned out, it was five beers and three rebuffs of drunk guys before she worked up the nerve to go see her mother. But, first, the restroom. As Uncle Dave was fond of saying, You don’t buy booze, you only rent it.

She got up and ambled toward the restroom with the word Gulls painted on it. The door next to it read Buoys. She pushed in the Gull door and went inside. 

After doing what needed doing, Mac pulled her jeans back up and buckled her belt and walked to the sinks in her Adidas shell tops. She ran the water, slapped some on her face, then closed the faucet and tap-tap-tapped it three times. For safety. Then, she looked at herself in the mirror thinking, this is a terrible idea. Then, following that thought with a smile, yup, that’s me all over. Just a long string of terrible ideas. She took in her reflection as if to emphasis the point. Her tank top left many of her tattoos on full display. Every mistaken one of them.

She thought of Gregg. Of what they had and what it came to in the end. The pain. The violence. The fires. Her skin had been so clean then. Not a mark or blemish. He’d marvel at the smoothness of her slender body. Bad Boy Gregg Selfridge with his leather and his boots and his pyrokinetics. Her love. Each having betrayed the other. And now her skin was marred.

There were the twin sparrows facing each other on her collarbones. The intricate sleeve of intertwining skulls and pinup girls going down her left arm, culminating in a wolf’s head on her hand, teeth down her fingers. The three coy swimming amidst water and flowers covering her entire right shoulder and running down to her mid bicep. The ring of carpenter’s tools around her right forearm, hammer, screwdriver, crowbar, etc. And the black band that went around her right middle finger, ever reminding her of the ring the digit once bore but never would again. And of course, smack dead in the middle of the skulls and gals on her left arm was the reminder of what was and what could be if she wasn’t careful: The heart enclosing the word Mom.

The rest of her tats where hidden under the tank top and jeans, but the list went on. Sure they had their usefulness and the price was steep but that’s magic for you. Ain’t nothing for free, Mac, Uncle Dave would say. She was thinking about David Wyatt and his litany of catch phrases as she drew away from the bathroom mirror. She was thinking of him still when the bathroom door flew open and a young man and woman burst in wielding fucking hunting knives.

The man swiped at Mac and she hopped back. The blade slashed through the stomach of her tank top revealing a slice of tattoo on her abs. The woman darted in passed the man with her knife in move both practiced and well executed. Again, Mac dodged and the woman’s knife slipped through the tank top on her side. Another tattoo sliver revealed, but still no blood. They were backing her into the wall and fast but being cornered only honed her instincts.

Mac tapped her right thumb to her middle finger three times and the hammer tattoo glowed momentarily. A second later, a hammer was in her hand. She swung the hammer and connected with the woman’s side. She fell to her knees with a groan.

Darla! the man yelled and dropped his guard. It was just for a second, but it was longer than Mac needed. She stepped past the fallen women, reached out and grabbed the man on the shoulder with her wolf hand. It glowed and her fingertips sunk into the muscle, drawing blood. The man screamed and dropped his knife.

The woman, Darla, got up and jumped on Mac’s back, ramming her into the bathroom stall door. Mac’s face collided with the metal and her bottom lip busted open. She threw an elbow back into Darla’s side, connecting with the point of the hammer’s impact. Darla gasped and let go. As she fell to the bathroom floor, the man rushed at Mac, screaming, Die, Wyatt Bitch!

Mac let him get a little closer then swung the hammer. There was a dull thud as the hammer’s head met the man’s temple and dropped him like a stone, unconscious, maybe worse.

Dash… Darla muttered, holding her side. You killed Dash…

He ain’t dead, Mac said and shrugged. I don’t think.

Why did you come ba-?

But, Darla couldn’t get it out before Mac launched a shell top in her Darla’s stomach, keeling her over.

Mac tap, tap, tapped her fingers and the hammer disappeared. She had no idea who these two were but they called her a Wyatt. Hell of a start, Mac thought, you really are just one terrible idea after another. Darla was rousing and Mac decided she didn’t want to be in Pete’s Saloon anymore. So she beat feet and left. Perhaps, had she made the same decision about Sunshine Beach, what came to pass could have been avoided.

Perhaps not.

CHAPTER THREE:

YOU TAKE WHAT YOU CAN

AND YOU LEAVE THE REST

The Selfridge’s farm, Thrun’s Bounty, much like the ancient pagan god Thrun for which it was named, giveth and taketh away. As Gregg Selfridge, his father Brandon and his nine-year-old boy, Duane worked on getting the tractor unstuck in the partially harvested cornfield, Gregg hoped it was the former rather than the latter. But, of course, that was up to Thrun.

Push, Duane, Gregg said to his son and Duane shoved harder into the tractor with his shoulder but its wheel was hopelessly anchored in the sinkhole. They’d been appearing lately here and there throughout the property but until now, nothing was made of it.

Duane shoved harder and his dad told him to push again.

I can’t budge this damn thing, Dad, Duane called out.

You need to push, Son. With your mind.

Duane looked back at his father and grandfather standing ten feet away. Gregg with his big hands on his broad hips stood six four but somehow Brandon, broader still, looked like the bigger man. Duane searched his father’s face for signs of a joke, but no. The man was serious. Duane could let her rip. Four years and Gregg hadn’t used his pyrokinesis and only rarely would he allow any of his children the use of their abilities. I don’t want you making the same mistakes I did, Gregg would say when pressed, but never would he elaborate on the true nature of those mistakes.

Really, Dad? I can?

Come on over, Boy, Brandon said and Duane complied.

As he stood before the head of the Selfridge family, he looked into the chipped flint eyes of Brandon Selfridge. What the older man thought was indiscernible in either the baby blue eye, the same color as all of his progeny, or the milky white one, a souvenir of the times before the truce. The moment hung until Brandon was satisfied then he took his flask from the back pocket of his overalls and held it out to his grandson. Duane looked to his dad as if to say, Are you sure? and Gregg nodded that indeed he was.

The boy took the flask from his grandfather and unscrewed the cap. Then, he brought it to his lips and took a swallow. This was not the whisky infused mystic water they sold to the tourists, the concoction that brought about a momentarily clearer way of thinking and a better sense of gratitude. This was the pure stuff. Straight from the well. Straight from the blood of Thrun.

The liquid went down refreshing as it always did and Gregg watched his son’s mind awaken with possibility. By the time the boy was his father’s age of thirty five, he would be so saturated by the water that he would no longer need to it bring forth his abilities. He would be able to freely use the gift Thrun had bestowed on the Selfridges, each with their own power. His sister. His mom. His aunts and uncles. And his father. All different shades on the spectrum of psionics. All third eye awoke.

Now, Brandon said to Duane, Like I taught you. Push the tractor with your mind. Its weight. Its size. Its dimensions. All irrelevant. Only your openness matters. Give it a shot.

Duane walked back to the tractor and stood before it. He closed his eyes. He put out a hand. And he pushed.

At first nothing came of it. Then, the tractor started to quiver in the hole. Then, it budged ever so slightly. Then, it began to shake. Duane began to shake with it in a combination of nerves and inexperience. He squinted his eyes hard. He bit his bottom lip drawing blood. The tractor rose an inch, then two, then six. Duane opened his eyes to see it, then the sight shocked him into a loss of focus and the tractor fell back into the sinkhole.

Duane lowered his head in failure. He exhaled defeated. He kicked at the dirt.

Gregg walked up to his son and put a hand on his shoulder. It’s OK. You need to be patient. I didn’t have half the ability you have when I was your age. Be proud you got as far as you did.

Duane sulked. His father ruffled his sandy blonde hair.

That’s enough of that, Brandon said to his kin. Stand back, the both of you. I want to show you, Duane, what a Selfridge is capable of. Your telekinesis is only beginning to emerge. Mine however, because of diligence and hard work, is something else entirely.

Whereas Duane felt the need to shut his eyes and put out his hand, Brandon Selfridge remained immobile. Gregg and Duane stepped back to his side. They waited. Then, the tractor began to rise. Six inches. A foot. Two. Five. Dirt sprinkled from its tires and gears and the tractor floated through the air. Brandon brought it safely fifteen feet from the sinkhole and set it down gently on the ground.

Duane looked up at his grandfather in admiration. It pinched Gregg a little to watch his father so in control of his psychic abilities, while Gregg had so utterly lost control those four years ago.

"Now,