Later Gator

  Later Gator

  Southern Fried Sass, Book 1

  by

  Julia Mills

  Welcome to Hairy Wart, La.

  Where the Tofu is southern fried and the Soul Food is vegetarian ~

  ‘Cause it’s just not right to eat your friends.

  Copyright © 2018 Julia Mills

  All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  NOTICE: This is an adult erotic paranormal romance with love scenes and mature situations. It is only intended for adult readers over the age of 18

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

  Cover by Renee George (She is the QUEEN of COVERS! This is my first ever ‘Renee cover’ and I cannot wait to have more!)

  Proofed by Tammy Payne with Book Nook Nuts (She is a ROCK STAR! Catches my booboos, ‘cause, well, my brain gets ahead of my fingers.)

  Beta Read by Linda Levy (She is a Beta Ninja! Catches when I leave a hole in the story or when I say something backwards. Yeah, it happens. I get so into the story that I zoom right past something that should’ve been there.)

  Formatted by Charlene Bauer with Wicked Bold Creations (She is the BEST EVER. Not only does she format my books, but she also reads every chapter as soon as I write with all the booboos, missed letters, and missed words, and makes sure I stay on track. She even gets the whip out when I wanna be a lazy bum. LOL)

  To all the ladies and gentlemen in my Fan Club and who receive my newsletter – THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU! Without you I wouldn’t have had a name for the Dragonettes! Y’all are the BESTEST EVER! And ya’ never know, you might be seeing some of the other answers you gave me in future stories! Thanks again so very much!

  Thank you, Crystal Watson, for giving the idea of Cletus the Chicken Hawk. Although his part in the story was short-lived, (Ha! Get it? Short Lived LOL) He was very important! THANKS AGAIN!

  DEDICATION

  Dare to Dream! Find the Strength to Act! Never Look Back!

  Thank you, God.

  To my girls, Liz and Em, I Love You. Every day, every way, always.

  They say laughter is the best medicine. I hope you giggle, snicker, chuckle, and laugh right out loud when you read this story. THANK YOU SO VERY MUCH for hanging out with me and my characters. It means the world to me.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  Faith

  Chapter One

  Ring…ring-ring-ring…riiiinnnggg….

  "I'm coming. I'm coming. I'm com…. Son of a bitch!" I knew Miss Bunny, our landlady, the owner of the diner our office was on top of, and the leader of the HW Ladies’ Prayer Circle was working up one helluva sermon just as soon as the words slipped through my lips, but in my world, hot coffee down the front of a brand new cream-colored, linen suit deserved a ‘son of a bitch', a ‘mother humper’, and a ‘shit, shit, shit’, so, I figured she was lucky I stopped where I did.

  Juggling the box of office supplies my half-sisters and our angsty assistant had requested, (Read that as demanded.) I bent down, grabbed my empty cup, and climbed the last three steps. Wrapping my hand around the knob, I shoved the door open and screamed, “Will someone puhlease get the damned phone?”

  “Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Portia sassed as she sauntered into the room, plopped her butt in her chair and finally picked up the phone. “Bubble, bubble, are you in trouble? Not to worry, we’ll be there on the double. No need to fear. No need to fret. We’re Southern Fried Sass. We’ll eliminate the threat. How may I help you today?”

  Stopping mid-stride, left foot still in the air, I stared at the pink-haired, Pearlescent Pixie with hundreds of braids all over her head, two nose rings, and round, fuchsia-framed glasses, I mouthed, "What the hell?" To which she shrugged and giggled into the phone, "Sure Henrietta. I'll have Faith give you a call."

  Rolling my eyes and groaning under my breath, I made my way into the kitchen/break room, (Another demand from the ‘crew.') let the box from Oscar's Office Emporium drop onto the table and growled, "Look at this crap. Just look at it, will you?" Waving my hands up and down, making sure my half-sisters – Rosie and Daisy – got a good look at my ruined clothing, I bitched as I threw my thumb over my shoulder as if I was trying to hitch a ride on I-10 during rush hour traffic, “And who the hell told Tinkerbell she could answer the phone like that?”

  “I am not a Tinkerbell! I am a Pearlescent Pixie from the Peaks of Mt Percival! Get it right.”

  Puce-colored bubbles appeared and immediately burst, fizzling like Pop Rocks thrown into a bottle of Coke. Yucky maroon smoke streamed from my fingertips, and barf-green blobs, like misshapen pieces of confetti, rained down all around the room. My boiling point was mere seconds away and all I could do was seethe through gritted teeth, "Please. Shut. Up. Portia."

  “Well, I never,” she huffed.

  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure she has,” Rosie chuckled as she kicked the door shut with the pointed, silver toe of her flaming red, four-inch heels. I have no idea how the heck she walks in those babies, but she sure does turn the male heads.

  Handing her an absolutely ginormous pack of sticky notes, I grumbled, "I just don't understand why she can't answer the blasted phone. It's not rocket science." I stopped and hit the ‘BREW' button on the super-dee-duper coffeemaker I'd purchased from Amazon for a small fortune before continuing. "Pick up the receiver, say hello. I mean – come on people, a monkey could do her job.”

  Taking a deep breath, I thought of all the things I should’ve or could’ve done instead of opening a Paranormal Private Detective Agency with my long-lost family. Quickly closing that door before it got completely out of hand, I added, “It’s our first real day in business. Wouldn't it be nice to have a customer or two?"

  “If you say so,” Betsy yawned, lifting her head off the table and pushing her thick auburn curls out of her face. “I would take a day or two off just to sleep if you asked me. Maybe, we should start next week, or next month, or…” Her words faded into another yawn and her head slowly dropped back onto the stack of folders she was using for a pillow.

  Thankfully, I wasn’t asking her, but I wasn’t getting upset with her lack of enthusiasm either. There is a reason that she is the way she is, a reason we’re all the way we are. Let me explain.

  You see, Rosie, Daisy, and I, along with our oldest sister, Harmony, have the extreme pleasure (Note the sarcasm.) of being the product of Nate the Bastard’s sperm donations to our respective mothers.

  Yes, I call my ‘father’, I use the term extremely loosely, Nate the Bastard. It’s the best name I could come up with. The other ladies have their own iteration of the same theme. You can only imagine the fun we have on Father’s Day, but I digress…

  The story we've been able to piece together since the Asshole Extraordinaire popped into Harmony's life and tried to kill her (More on that later.) is that dear old dad sold his soul to the Devil long before he met any of our moms. We don't know
why he did it or what he hoped to gain, just that he was, and presumably still is, dumber than a burlap bag of dicks and greedier than an old hog – that's the truth, whether we like it or not. Better to deal with what we’ve been given and move on, ya' know what I mean?

  It took a bit, but the four of us have come to terms with the fact that his fucked up DNA runs through our veins. We do thank the Goddess on a daily basis that our mothers were ‘somewhat’ normal and very, very powerful in the white magic, good side of the Goddess and the Grand Priestess way. (Woohoo for dominant genes and good being stronger than evil!)

  Anyway, Nate the Bastard decided to have children with absolutely as many unsuspecting Witches as he could find, wait until that child had come into his or her powers, and then substitute the kid’s soul for his with the King of Hell – yep, you guessed it - big, bad Lucifer himself.

  Great father figure, right? Yeah, our collective gene pool is a muddy puddle of shits, giggles, sludge, and plain old pond scum. I, for one, have decided never, ever to reproduce. Doesn't mean I won't practice if I ever find a man that makes my wand tingle and my toes curl. But…umm, yeah…maybe we'll talk about the lack of male companionship in my life later…much later.

  For now, let’s stick to the subject at hand…

  As luck would have it, Aunt Dot, Harmony's mom's sister and one batshit crazy witch with a heart of gold and a hair-trigger temper, happened to be hanging out with some of her friends in one of the many backwater dive bars near Buttface or Asshat or Whateversville, West Virginia where Harmony now lives in the house she inherited from Auntie Dot.

  Yes, it’s true, Dot is one of the ‘living impaired.' (Her definition, not mine.) She does, however, not subscribe to the old adage of resting in peace. She is the Ghostess with the mostest, still raising hell and wreaking havoc whenever she can.

  Moving on, back in the day, she overheard Nate the Bastard telling his merry band of dipshits about his crazy plan to populate the earth with his spawn. (Sure, the term is offensive but most of his offspring turned out to be, well…umm…let’s just say, not quite right.) After running home and telling Harmony’s mom, Mary, who was pregnant with my awesome half-sister at the time, the two of them came up with the plan to banish dear old dad to CopacaNetherworld. (That’s the deep dark hole stuck between Purgatory and the Pits of Hell where Witches and Wizards who messed up in epic and truly horrible ways while alive get to live out their afterlives. Think 1960’s Vegas, complete with the Rat Pack, scantily clad cigarette girls, and mobsters, where the same day repeats itself over and over, you can never get drunk no matter how many Gin and Tonics you drink, and the food tastes like actual shit on an actual shingle. Colorful, but still Hell no matter how you slice it.)

  Giving credit where credit is due, I have to say Dot and Mary had some real chutzpah. Nate the Bastard was strong, hopped up on Hades’ Hellfire and stronger than three oxen and a Sumo wrestler. What they did is freaking amazing, to say the very least.

  They were ready and waiting. Nate walked in the front door, the ladies cut off his head, threw a major-kick-him-in-the-ass-make-him-see-stars whammy on his skanky hide and Bob's your uncle – they were rid of the asshole. (I've never really understood that saying, but Bertie, a friend of mine from some little village in England, always says it and it seemed to fit this situation so, I gave it a try.) My sperm donor was magically thrown into the biggest club in Purgatory making the world safe from his lying, impregnating ass for what they presumed would be forever.

  Of course, his assholishness didn't stop there. Unbeknownst to the ladies, during the years after he'd made his pact with Hades and before he met my mom, Nate the Bastard had been shoving a nasty little spell of his own making into every grimoire he could find. The hex or curse, whichever you prefer, was to talk Harmony into releasing him from Witchy Purgatory.

  Talk about hedging your bets. The bastard really tried to think of everything. Why is it that truly awful people always come up with the most foolproof plans? Yeah, I have no clue either. Something to think about though, later, after my tale maybe.

  For now, back to your regularly scheduled story...

  Thanks for sticking with me. I know that explanation was long, but it was necessary, and you're about to see why. Remember back up there before I got off track on Nate the Bastard when I said it wasn't Daisy's fault that she was so tired all the time? Well, now I can tell you, and you will understand, that her mom, Cassandra, is none other than the Fairy Queen of the Dreamscape. She's the one humans call the Sandman. (I know. I was shocked too.)

  But, if you think about it, she’s got the best cover ever. Everyone thinks she’s a tiny, little, gnome-like dude who puts people to sleep and gives them peacefully sweet dreams. When in all actuality, she could be a supermodel. (Really, the woman is gor-ge-ous. The only fault I can find is that she was conned by Nate just like all the others. Then again, he was a silver-tongued demon – literally.)

  Now, you see why I can’t get mad at Daisy for always being tired. Her internal clock doesn’t kick into overdrive until about nine p.m. Good thing Rosie and I don’t need a lot of sleep, because when Daisy is awake, she is A-WAKE.

  “Are you listening to me, Faith?” Rosie demanded. “Or have you gone off to La-La-Land again.”

  “I’m listening.” (I wasn’t and she knew it.) “Just thinking about how to drum up some business.”

  As if on cue, the door behind me swung open and in pranced Portia. Her bubblegum pink tutu flounced to and fro while her flashing, bedazzled, magenta, talon-like nails made my head spin. (At that point, I was really considering an office dress code.) Sticking out her hand and dangling a piece of paper just shy of the end of my nose, the Pink Pearlescent Fairy huffed, "Henrietta says her chicken coop was vandalized and three of her best egg-layers were hen-napped. She’s freakin’ out and wants you to come right away.”

  Closing my eyes and counting to three, I prayed that it was all a bad dream, that when I reopened my lids the day would've reset. I would get a redo. Imagine that. Yeah, well, imagine no more, that crap didn't happen.

  Snatching the message from my snippy secretary’s fingers, I slapped on a sickeningly sweet, all be it fake, smile and smirked, “Thanks so much, Portia.”

  Before I could read the message, the phone was ringing once again. Fortunately, the pink pain in my butt answered the damn thing on the second ring. Unfortunately, she screeched, "It's Henrietta again, and she's so pissed she's literally clucking between every word"

  With a truly exasperated breath, I let my head fall forward as my shoulders followed suit by slumping in what I could only assume was a most unflattering way and sighed, "Just what this day needed, a six-foot-three Cajun Chicken Shifter whose about to sprout feathers and peck the ground."

  Grabbing my purse and throwing back my shoulders, I added, “Come on, girls. Time to get to work.”

  Chapter Two

  “Don’t,” I hissed. “Open that door.”

  Stopping with her hand hanging in the air, Rosie shot me a glare as she sassed, "Say please."

  Rolling my eyes, I begrudgingly relented, "Please, don't open that door." Motioning with a nod towards the front of the car, I groaned, "Sherriff Bad Attitude is already here. At least give me a minute before the verbal warfare begins."

  Letting my head fall back, I closed my eyes and grumbled, "Not today, Satan, not today. Why did you have to do this to me today?"

  "You really need to get over whatever it is that you have against Sherriff Fine Ass, Faith. You're a Detective and he's the long arm of the law. How the hell do you intend to avoid him in a town the size of a postage stamp with fewer people than WalMart on a Monday morning? Bumping into that fine piece of Gator tail is inevitable. Get used to it."

  Unwilling to enter into the same song second verse that Rosie had been singing since the first day Sherriff Beauregard St. Croix swaggered into our office, I told myself this time would be different. Of course, I was blowing sunshine up my own heinie, but what one of
us hasn't done it a million times?

  Tall, broad shoulders, gorgeous green eyes and a cheeky grin with just enough tooth showing out from under those very kissable lips that I knew he could be bad in a really good way. I admit my knees gotta little weak the first time I set eyes on him. Then he opened his mouth and all I could think of was kicking him in the ba…umm…shin.

  It took less than thirty seconds for the arrogant, high and mighty, too-big-for-his-Wranglers Sherriff of Hairy Wort, Louisiana to make me so mad that I saw red and thought about turning him into a toad. His words still ring loud and clear in my mind every time I lay eyes on him.

  "I'm here to welcome y'all to our little town." He held out his hand. "But I need to make sure you ladies understand that I'm the Sherriff. I’ve been elected by the people of this town to protect and serve, therefore, any ‘real' cases go through me."

  My hand had just touched his, and I was working hard to control the urge to close the distance between us and see if the sparks racing up my arm would be just as good if I laid my lips to his when his ‘command’ registered in my foggy brain. Snatching my hand from his, I slammed it on my hip and deadpanned, "Excuse me?"

  “Now, don’t get the Sherriff wrong,” the younger man I’d immediately identified as a Coyote Shifter with way less attitude and arrogance than reptilian boss, blushed and stammered as he stepped forward. “We’re awful glad you’re here. It’s just that…”

  "It's just that I can't figure out why you'd come to Hairy Wort and set up a Private Detective Agency." The Sherriff cut off his Deputy as stepped in front of the younger man. "Seems like you'd get more business in a bigger town." His smile was forced and didn’t reach his eyes as he took off his hat and added, "Hell, we haven't had anything but chicken thieves and teenagers cow-tippin' for as long as I can remember."