SEDUCTIVE SUPERNATURALS: 12 Tales of Shapeshifters, Vampires & Sexy Spirits Read Free

didn’t buy into that, which wasn’t the same as saying he didn’t believe it. When he looked back on his life, it seemed fate had done more than drive him around; it had plotted out a specific course that brought him here, now, to a bookstore in Los Angeles where he would meet his destiny.
    “We’ve put your table right up front,” the Barnes & Noble manager told him.
    “Thank you.”
    “I think you’ll have a good turnout. Your book has been selling quite well for us.”
    This was his fourth book, and he still couldn’t get used to hearing that it wasn’t complete crap. Maybe he’d never get used to hearing it. A part of him still believed that it was his nefarious and disastrous venture into the music business that brought the readers to his books, not the writing. Not his stories, but the story of a failed rocker turned literary genius. He smirked to himself at that. Yeah, that.
    But fans did come. The women, as often as not, looking for something better than a book to take to bed. The young musicians came because they thought some of his luck would rub off on them. It didn’t matter that his luck in the music business had run out fast. The others . . . He still hadn’t figured out what drew the others. All in all, though, he ate well, traveled in fair style, and lived a life of quasi-fame. In honesty, more than he’d ever expected of himself.
    He ran a hand over his nearly shaved head, still expecting the shoulder-length shag he’d worn until a few months ago when he’d decided it was time to cut even that from his life. The impeccably dressed manager he followed to the table hadn’t said a word about Reilly’s appearance, but it was there in the look that skimmed his Flogging Molly T-shirt and faded blue jeans. In the beginning, when the first book had come out, he’d tried the dressing up and felt like an even bigger idiot and imposter. The slacks and button-down had fit his image like panty hose and a sunbonnet.
    “Just let me know if you need anything,” the manager said before going about his business. A cold beer would be nice, but Reilly refrained from asking and simply thanked the man. All he could hope was that the next two hours went fast.
    During his college years Reilly had made his living as a lead singer and songwriter of a band called Badlands. When the group broke up after three years and one hit single, Reilly had been left with a bit of fame and little fortune. Individually, each of the band members had branched out and failed to produce anything worth listening to. Reilly had resorted to writing songs for others until he’d finally settled down and pounded out the novel he’d been thinking of for years.
    Four books later, he’d gained enough traction to warrant a fifth. Riding the infamy tide with Badlands had taught him not to believe his own press, though. They loved his books today, but only if he had something better to provide tomorrow. His problem of the hour was that he didn’t. The channel of ideas he’d been surfing had disappeared and left him lost and in a panic over what came next. Was it time for yet another career change?
    The signing started like clockwork with a steady trickle of readers who had fished his other titles off the shelves and now wanted his signature on the new one. It never felt real to scrawl his name on the title page, but he tried not to let it show. A few strays showed up, too, most of them looking for the bathroom, a couple in search of Cinnabon and its seductive aroma.
    When a young man in board shorts and an old Badlands concert T-shirt came up to the table, Reilly immediately took note. He hadn’t seen one of those shirts in years. It made him feel nostalgic for a minute.
    The kid told him, “I’m writing a report for my music history class about one-hit wonders. You know, where are they now?”
    “They’re all in hiding,” Reilly said. He knew for a fact that one or two of his own one-hit disaster group would probably shoot the