Netherworld: Drop Dead Sexy

Netherworld: Drop Dead Sexy

By

Tracy St. John

(c) Copyright August 2011, Tracy St.
John

Cover art by, (c) Copyright December
2011

Smashwords Edition

Published by New Concepts
Publishing

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All
characters, events, and places are of the author’s

imagination and not to be confused with
fact. Any resemblance to living persons or

events is merely
coincidence.

Chapter One

I sobbed, staring at the Southern
yellow pine woods that surrounded me. My head whipped this way and
that. Only lines of gray-barked trunks, topped by evergreen
needles, greeted my wide-eyed gaze. The nightmare had begun
again.

The daytime terror possessed me this
time. My nightmare’s sunlit version was infinitely better than my
woods-at-night dream. Nothing stalked me while the sun shone down.
Still, heaviness bore down on me, letting me know terrible things
had happened here. Things so horrible, it coated the atmosphere
like an August afternoon’s humidity.

Nothing hinted at the dread that filled
the hushed woods. The dry pine needles beneath my shoeless
silk-stockinged feet were a carpet, layered thickly over the
ground. Nearby, a humped, rumpled splash of teal fabric lay in a
drift of the brown needles and pine cones.

I wouldn’t look at that. I couldn’t
look at it. My eyes skittered over the bright scream of color,
refusing to focus.

The early spring air was warm, just
starting to hint at the muggy, breath-choking humidity that would
descend over southeast Georgia within a few weeks. The pine trees
marched in neat, unnatural rows. I stood in the middle of one of
the many tree farms that served the nearby pulp mill in Fulton
Falls, where I lived. The sun hung golden in a powder-blue sky,
peeking between gray-brown branches.

It was as peaceful a scene as you might
imagine, far from the terror of the nighttime version of my dream.
When the sky turned velvet black, something darted through the
trees nearby, growling and searching. I had the ugly feeling it
looked for me. I always tried to make myself small and invisible in
those sleeping fantasies, because if the unseen something caught me
I would be in a world of hurt. I knew that as sure as I knew my own
name.

For these hours of light, I cringed
from nothing beneath the pines. Alone, without that cold, brutal
presence haunting the woods. This place still scared the heck out
of me. Sure it was only a dream, but that didn’t change the sick,
watery feeling in my stomach. God, I so wanted to wake
up.

“Hello,” said a quiet voice behind
me.

I jumped a clear mile. A high, thin
scream streamed from my lips. The stalking thing that filled my
after-dark nightmares was here after all, and it had found me at
last. I whirled to see what shape my doom would take.

I don’t know what I expected to see
waiting to gobble me up with pointed dagger teeth, but it sure
wasn’t this smiling dark-haired man wearing a nice button-down
shirt and pressed slacks. He didn’t have sharp teeth. Or claws. No,
he looked nicely normal.

Okay, he looked a little better than
nicely normal. Clean-cut with a little bit of a five o’clock shadow
on his ruggedly handsome face. And I do mean ruggedly handsome as
in the stereotyped Marlboro Man sense. This guy was not a pretty
boy, what Yankees probably referred to as ‘metrosexual’. He was a
manly man with a capital MAN. Strong jawed. Wide browed. Sharp
chocolate brown eyes with creases in the corners. More light
creases in his forehead and around his mouth told me he was no
wet-behind-the-ears youngster. Late thirties, early forties,
perhaps? Yummilicious, in a word.

It didn’t end with the face either. Oh
no, Mr. Rugged was the whole package from top to toe. He wasn’t
tall, maybe only five inches higher than me, but that suited me
fine. He’d still be taller when I wore heels. His wide chest
tapered to a trim waist. Thick thighs pressed the boundaries of his
slacks. Shoulders to die for started arms I would just love to be
scooped up and carried away in. He possessed a body that did hard
work and could work a girl hard.

From terrified to turned on in a couple
of heartbeats. Yeah, I liked my dream plenty just about
now.

But even in dreams, a lady doesn’t jump
on a solid piece of walking sexual real estate. Introductions are a
must. “Who are you?” I asked.

His deep voice was gentle, a muffled
bark of sorts. “I’m here to help you. You seemed very upset when I
got here.”

Oh glory, my subconscious served up
gentlemen today. And I am very good in the Damsel in Distress role.
It happens to be several of my clients’ favorite.

Sniffling decorously, wiping at the
real tears I’d cried only moments before, I said, “I don’t know
what I’m doing here. Tell me it’s just a bad dream.”

Marlboro Man winced, his eyes closing
in seeming pain for an instant. He looked at me again and stepped
closer, near enough to touch. I had a hard time not running my
hands over those muscular shoulders or the chiseled chest I knew
hid behind that very professional white shirt. I was like a kid at
the dessert bar, and he was the buffet.

“My name is Dan,” he said.

Okay, it wasn’t Bruce or Lars or Travis
or anything super macho sounding, but Dan was not a bad name. It
wasn’t a sissy name at least; I swear if I meet one more Brent or
Chip in this town I’ll scream. “I’m Brandilynn,” I said.

He took my hand. Smiled. “You’re very
pretty, Brandilynn. I’d like to help you.”

And I’d like to help myself to you. A
big ol’ heaping helping of Mr. Dan the Marlboro Man. And why not?
Dreaming meant the barriers had fallen. No harm, no foul when it
came to nocturnal fantasies.

“Will you hold me? This nightmare is
usually very scary.” I gave him wide, helpless eyes.

He hesitated. How sweet, he really was
a gentleman. Taking the lead, I stepped close enough that the
fronts of our bodies touched. The softness of my breasts brushed
his chest. There’s something to be said about being close to each
other in height. It makes all the good parts touch.

Dan’s arms closed around me. I moved
nearer, snuggling tight against his very nice body. His groin
pressed hard against me, letting me know of his intense interest.
My arms circled his neck, and I nibbled on his chin. His face
inclined to mine, and he took my mouth with his. Dan didn’t commit
the sin of a tentative embrace. He gave me one of those good,
strong kisses I prefer, like it was his right to claim what he
wished from me.

Well, of course he kissed me the way I
wanted. It was my dream, after all.

When our lips parted I asked, “What
would you like?”

His grip on me loosened, and he took a
half step away. “Do you remember how you got here,
Brandilynn?”

Oh pooh, what was with the serious
conversation? I wanted him to shut up and kiss me again. Then
again, whiny girls do not get the guy. I made myself not pout at
the delay. “I must have gotten lost. I never go in the woods,
except in these stupid nightmares.” I snuggled close to him again,
wanting to feel more of this dream lover before I woke up. “I’m
glad you found me.”

Heavy footfalls sounded behind me, and
I turned to see figures moving towards us. Crap. The dream was
taking another turn and I had a feeling my sexy man and I weren’t
going to have fun after all. Oh well. Sex came easily in my line of
work. Too bad none of my real-life regulars resembled Dream
Dan.

His arms tightened around me.
“Brandilynn, you’re about to hear some bad stuff. No matter what
happens, try to not be afraid. It’s going to be okay, and I’ll be
right here the whole time to take care of you.”

The tone of his voice made me scared
once more. Yeah, despite the iron bands of his arms around me, this
fantasy was definitely going downhill again.

The footsteps came ever closer, and I
peered through the line of trees to see who interrupted my wet
dream.

I recognized one of the approaching men
right away as Sheriff Grayson, head of Ford County’s law
enforcement. I’d never met him, but as the county and Fulton Falls
grow, so do their problems. Burgeoning drug crimes, the local
shapeshifter biker gang, and of course the ongoing serial killings
kept the sheriff’s weathered face on the local news.

Grayson looked like the good ol’ boy he
was, his ample belly held up by a thick belt. You’d be a fool to
think him soft, however. His arms were big slabs of muscle that had
slammed many a felon against various surfaces: the hoods of cars,
building walls, asphalt roads. You didn’t cut smart with Grayson.
He didn’t play.

His blue eyes could be soft with
compassion as he patted a new widow’s arm or steely with intent
when facing a suspect. An equal number of laugh and frown lines
bracketed his mouth, and his eyes nested in a cobweb of deep
wrinkles. His skin was like old tanned leather.

He played Santa for the special
education pre-k school at their annual Christmas party. He bought
presents for each and every child out of his own pocket. This year
there had been over one hundred.

Grayson also showed up at the state
legislature every time the death penalty threatened to be
overturned, arguing not only to keep it in place but to cut the
appeals process in half. To paraphrase comedian Ron White, the
sheriff wanted to put an express lane in Death Row. He didn’t
believe in giving killers a second chance to murder
again.

A young slip of a man followed in the
sheriff’s wake, so unremarkable in appearance that my gaze slid
right over him. A brief impression of mouse brown hair and a beak
of a nose entered my conscience before I took in the two women in
their company.

One was tall and lean, her frame
boyish. Her short chestnut hair and lack of makeup reinforced the
slightly masculine appearance. In her polo shirt, jeans and
sneakers, she dressed right for a walk in the woods. She walked
with her head down, her attitude one of rapt attention, as if
searching for something. Her eyes shifted from side to side,
scanning the path before her.

If she lost a ring in this pine straw,
she’s pretty much out of luck.

The other woman couldn’t have been more
her opposite. She too wore jeans and sneaks, but her rayon pink
shirt had ruffles at the neckline, and she’d overdone the big
jewelry with chandelier earrings, four gold necklaces, chunky
bracelets on each arm and rings on every finger. Soft and round,
she was a cuddly looking gal. She’d bleached her hair within an
inch of its life. The platinum locks hung in improbable Shirley
Temple curls. Her makeup was garish and loud: blue eyeshadow, thick
black eyeliner, screaming fire engine red lipstick. Her powder
caked in her many laugh lines. Her too-serious expression sat wrong
on a naturally jolly face.

I wanted to rush up to her, give her a
hug, wash her face and take her clothes shopping. That cheap blouse
did nothing for her apple figure.

The walking fashion disaster suddenly
stopped and closed her eyes. “She’s near. Dan’s with her. Oh, the
poor girl.”

I frowned at Dan. “Is she talking about
me?”

He nodded. “Lana’s a psychic. She can
sense you, but no one else can. The other woman, Taylor, is a
clairvoyant. She’s trying to find your …”

He stopped and reconsidered what he was
going to say. “She’s trying to find you,” he finally
finished.

What a weird dream.

Sheriff Grayson halted, his big hands
touching the two women’s shoulders. They stopped too. The deputy
goggled over their shoulders.

Grayson pointed at the pile of teal my
eyes refused to settle on. “You found her, bless her soul. Stay
back, ladies. Come on Buck, let’s have a look at her before we tape
it off and call in the big boys.”

The two officers walked over to the
splash of color, Grayson stepping heavily, the deputy almost
prancing with nervous energy. They halted next to the teal pile and
looked down at it. The younger man went very white. Buck staggered
away, getting behind a tree before yarking up his last meal.
Grayson’s mouth drew into a tight line. He shook his head
sadly.