Changeling (Book 1) Rated R

Chapter 1

It all began with a murder.

I was convinced, in fact, that dad being killed had been the catalyst that set everything into motion.

After all, it was only after his death that I began seeing ghosts.

And today, on the anniversary date of his murder, I did what I usually did—numbed the pain, and the ghosts, with alcohol.

"Hit me with another one, Greg."

Greg turned to look at me while slinging a blue rag over his shoulder. His dirty blonde bangs hung over the left side of his face which he brushed away before responding.

"I think you've had enough. What does that make, like seven?""

"I'll be sure to speak up when I've had enough."

"I mean it, Aimee. I'm cutting you off and calling you an Uber."

"Uber schmuber. Get me another drink or I won't finish that sweet little piece on your forearm."

I gestured to the nearly finished tattoo of roses and skulls, winding up his left arm and disappearing beneath his black t-shirt, my handiwork of course.

"Nice try, Aims, but then who will supply you with alcohol?"

He was right. We had a sweet deal going, him and I. I did free artwork for him in exchange for an apparently limited supply of alcohol and entry into the nightclub Cocktail despite not being quite twenty-one yet.

"Why does it feel like I'm getting the short end of the stick here, Gregory?" Frowning, I banged my shot glass on the marble countertop as he turned to stack glasses behind him. "Don't be a jerk. Get me a Sex on the Beach. You ever had sex on the beach, Greg?"

Greg rolled his eyes and walked away.

"Me neither." I mumbled.

Someone slid into the bar-stool beside me. Not one to ogle at men, because, frankly, I preferred for them to do the ogling, I tried to ignore him. But the scent of expensive cologne, coupled with a shiny leather jacket had me swiveling in my seat to see who it was.

It turned out to be a man with a sharp jaw and thin lips. His hair was a near shade of black, styled with a modern part and he was handsome in the way cologne commercial men where handsome, as if he was fresh out of a Vogue magazine.

"Not very fun," He said.

I shot him a what the hell look.

"Sex on the beach," He continued. "Sand everywhere."

I snorted.

Of course, he would know that.

"Can I buy you a drink?" He asked.

"I'm cut off," I grumbled.

"In that case," he tapped the counter as Greg walked over to him. "An espresso for the lady. Make it a double and add a dash of rum."

"Are you trying to get me drunk?"

He graced me with a small chuckle.

"No, I think you've got that part covered. This will sober you right up, trust me. Family secret." he informed me with a twang of an accent in his voice.

Was it Russian?

What was a ridiculously handsome Russian doing in middle of freaking nowhere, Oregon?

"I'm Christian," He said, extending his hand out.

I twirled one of my curls and bit my lip, debating if I should shake his hand. One of the unwanted side effects of whatever freak accident had happened to me to make me see ghosts, involved seeing people's auras when I touched them.