Drinker with a Writing Problem Read online

  Drinker with a Writing Problem

  By Nickie Jamison

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2018 Nickie Jamison

  ISBN 9781634867474

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  For all the haters <3

  * * * *

  Drinker with a Writing Problem

  By Nickie Jamison

  The Sorcerer’s Assistant

  Heart Stone

  The Penthouse

  Saving Grace

  The Sorcerer’s Assistant

  Five stories of restored turn-of-the-century brownstone dampened the sound of torrential rain falling from the sky. On the street outside, the storm compounded the cacophony of New York City, tires splashing through puddles on the black top and people splashing through puddles on the sidewalk—even in a downpour, the city didn’t stop. Lola stamped water from her rain boots.

  The large house belonged to a Mrs. Gertrude Gale, who had come to the office of M. Fletcher, PMP—Practical Magic Professional—for help. “How long do you think we’ll have to stay here, Fletch?” Lola asked her husband.

  Slim build, broad shoulders, trim waist, and long legs, standing six foot four, Milo Fletcher towered over Lola and most other mortals. His black curls hung down over his ears, framing an angular face and Roman nose. A dark dusting of stubble on his chin, the perpetual five o’clock shadow, gave him the quality that Lola had explained to her girlfriends as magically, roguishly sexy. He wore black slacks and matching waistcoat, a light blue dress shirt, a black silk tie with a western pattern of little horses, lassoes, cacti, and six pointed stars weaved in, and black cowboy boots. If it weren’t for his lack of cowboy hat and his tie tack with the gold circle and rune Venere Magicae logo—the Sorcerer’s order he had apprenticed with—etched on the front, Milo Fletcher could’ve easily starred in a Clint Eastwood flick. He had the Texas twang when he talked, too.

  “Depends on what we’re dealing with here, darlin’” Fletcher winked at Lola and glided into the gallery beyond the foyer.

  Lola’s heart dropped into her stomach with nervous excitement, the same feeling she got with every new case. She had been fresh out of college—the only non-magical in her class to successfully graduate with a major in Business Administration and a minor in Sorcery from New York University—when she’d applied for the Sorcerer’s Assistant position on Monster. Her classmates and friends all had normal careers as secretaries, office managers, and other dead-end jobs.

  Finding something she was uniquely qualified for hadn’t been a cakewalk since she wasn’t magical, and typically a Sorcerer took on an Apprentice—who was magical— and not an Assistant. Lola thought about the first time she’d met Fletcher. His office was in a building in South Bronx above a tattoo parlor, sandwiched between a Private Investigator and a Bail Bondsman.

  The gold vinyl lettering on the single glass pane of Fletcher’s office door peeled up at the edges, and the comma between Fletcher and PMP was missing completely. There was a secretary’s desk, sans secretary, in the front room. The space was divided by a half-wall, half-glass partition, and the actual door to Fletcher’s office was propped open with a file box. Lola glanced up at the ceiling fan, spinning slow circles, too slow to generate any breeze.

  “How can I help you?” Milo Fletcher stood in the doorway, his arms folded across his chest.

  Lola’s eyes widened. She’d never seen a Sorcerer that looked…attractive…and normal. He was wearing a beat-up pair of Reeboks, faded straight leg jeans—Wrangler’s to be exact—and a plain gray T-shirt. Her professors at NYU had always been clad in a way that broadcast their magical status—a cloak or pointed hat had been the fashionable choice her freshman year.

  “I’m Viola Lynch, I’m here for my interview.” A drop of sweat slid down the back of her neck. She smiled. His eyes were silver, Lola noticed.

  “Oh, right.” Fletcher turned around and rummaged through a pile of papers on his desk. “You don’t appear to have any real work experience for the last five years, can you explain the gap in employment?”

  Lola mentally rolled her eyes—the standard interview question. She shifted her weight from one foot to another, anchoring herself in preparation for hitting another metaphorical brick wall. She wished he weren’t so damned hot; it might be easier to talk to him. “College.”

  “Five years?” Fletcher arched an elegant eyebrow.

  “Four, and it’s hard to get work experience when no one hires you.” She frowned. Couch surfing had been second nature since graduation and Lola refused to let her father be right—she was not destined to fail, to become some average joe—miserable, over-worked, and underpaid.

  Fletcher chuckled. “Why do you want this job?”

  “Because I want an income.” Sarcasm escaped before Lola could catch herself. Her fair skin flushed red, heat spreading across the bridge of her nose and cheeks.

  “You’re hired,” Fletcher said.

  “Seriously?”

  Fletcher nodded. “I like you and you’re the only applicant.”

  Has it really been five years since I met Fletcher? We’ve only been married for three, right?

  “Stripper dressed like a giant bunny rabbit,” Fletcher said.

  Lola blinked. She’d been so engrossed in her reverie that she hadn’t heard Fletcher talking to her. “What?”

  Fletcher moved to the stairs and gestured for Lola to follow. “See the footprints?”

  Lola’s gaze followed the length of her husband’s outstretched arm down to the dust on the stairs’ railing. She bent close, holding the cowl neck of her black sweater so it wouldn’t hit the dirty wood, and peered at a six-inch section of mahogany with tiny, barely discernable footprints. “Fairy?”

  “That’s a cloven hoof print, you can see the clear demarcation between the toes.” Fletcher gestured again.

  Lola squinted. She couldn’t discern anything except that Mrs. Gale, the owner of the large house, needed to invest in a Swiffer. “Not fairy, then what?” She rubbed the end of her nose, wiping away the tickle of an impending sneeze. Damn dust.

  “Sprite. Nasty, venomous little motherfucker.”

  Lola sneezed. Fletcher handed her the light blue handkerchief from his breast pocket.

  “Venomous?” Lola asked through sniffles.

  Fletcher nodded. “A sprite bite can kill small children and animals. Adults and larger animals experience extreme toxicity.”

  “That explains Sir Fluffywoozle,” Lola said.

  “Ges
undheit.”

  Lola arched an eyebrow. “Mrs. Gale said one of her Pomeranians died suddenly a few weeks ago.”

  Fletcher’s eyes lit up. “Is the dog buried on the property?”

  Lola snorted derisively. “In the garden, but I’m not going to exhume the body of a family pet in a torrential downpour, Mr. Fletcher.” She moved past him up the stairs.

  “But, Mrs. Fletcher, during a rainstorm is the best time to exhume bodies.” He followed her. “What if I make it stop raining? Honey?”

  “No.”

  Lola glanced at the framed pictures lining the walls. Black and white and sepia photographs—the details faded by time—hung alongside recently printed color photos. They were a mishmash of candid snapshots and school portraits of the same four children at varying ages. Three prints of a newborn hung at the head of the staircase, the signature square and over-filtered Instagram prints arranged in a collage.

  Fletcher craned his neck, studying the decorative medallion around the ceiling sconce in the third floor library-turned-playroom. The built-in shelves were lined with children’s movies in varying formats—VHS, DVD, and Blu-ray—and a large collection of kids’ books, everything from One Fish, Two Fish to Hunger Games, and two iPads in brightly colored protective cases.

  “Spoiled grandkids?” Lola pointed to the vast array of video game consoles, a tangle of USB chords and controllers, a pile of game character figurines, and a knee high stack of game discs.

  “Grandma could be a gamer.” Fletcher rubbed the back of his neck and rolled his shoulders. He tapped a bucket of green Army men with his foot and shrugged. “The little devil has plenty of places to hide, that’s for sure.”

  The furnishings in the rest of the house were an eclectic grandmotherish collection of antique and modern. Victorian fainting couches, four-poster beds, handmade quilts and crocheted afghans, French provincial bureaus, and curio cabinets with fine china and porcelain dolls were intermixed with flat screen televisions, novelty cups with cartoon characters on them, and newer Little Tikes and Playschool toys.

  “How many Sprites do you think are here?” Lola asked, following her husband up to the top floor of the Brownstone.

  “Sprites are loners, so at most you’ll get two in a house during mating season.”

  “Mating season?”

  “They don’t just appear out of thin air, darlin’”

  “I know that, but I didn’t know they had a mating season.” Lola blushed.

  “Sometimes I forget you’re non-magical.” Fletcher leaned down and kissed her on the forehead.

  Lola sometimes forgot that herself. Being married to a Sorcerer made her feel exceptionally special, but it wasn’t because he was magical. He loved her—that was magical enough.

  “I’ve never actually seen a sprite. What do they look like?” Lola asked.

  “The closest thing I can think of is a gargoyle, but they’re only about this big.” Fletcher held up his hand, thumb and forefinger positioned a few inches apart. “And they can range in color from mossy green to any shade of brown and gray. I’ll bring the suitcase up from the foyer. Chinese for dinner?”

  “Sure.” Lola followed Fletcher back down the stairs.

  Lola set her shoes to dry by the front door in the foyer and smoothed her skinny jeans over her calves—they had the annoying tendency to bunch inside her rain boots. She was on the second floor, on hold with the Chinese delivery place, when Fletcher passed by, levitating the suitcase up the stairs. “Elevator,” she said to him and pointed to the lift door. She’d mistaken the door for a bathroom and was surprised to find it.

  Fletcher stopped and squinted, the expression Lola recognized as slight annoyance. He was used to using his magic to make tasks easier and it often didn’t occur to him to use non-magical things to do the same thing.

  “Lo Mein?” Lola asked him.

  Fletcher nodded and gave her a thumbs up as he floated the suitcase into the elevator.

  The rain continued to fall and Lola tipped the delivery kid extra. “Is there any way to make the Sprites show up faster?” she asked Fletcher as she pulled the white cardboard cartons from the white plastic bag, with the giant yellow smiley face and “Thank You!!!” on it.

  Fletcher separated a pair of chopsticks with a sharp click. “Why, you got something planned?” He fished a green peapod from the carton of noodles, popped it into his mouth, and chewed slowly.

  Lola shrugged and sat down in the chair and separated her own pair of chopsticks. “Not really. I just didn’t want to spend a-whole-nother weekend working.” She sighed and stirred the carton of chicken and Chinese vegetables—there were always loads of veggies swimming in the greasy brown sauce, but never more than three pieces of chicken. It’s a Chinese takeout conspiracy.

  “When’s the last time we had a free weekend?” Fletcher mused.

  “Not counting the weekend you went to the International Sorcerers’ Symposium in Brussels, without me, February.”

  “You wanted to go to Florida to visit your sister,” Fletcher said.

  Lola scowled. Her sister, Helen, and Fletcher tolerated one another for Lola’s sake. Helen’s entire argument against Fletcher was that Lola’s relationship with him was nothing more than a powerful (or in this case magical) man’s cliché fantasy—boss bends pencil skirt and high heels clad secretary over his desk. Lola had never worn a pencil skirt a day in her life; she preferred A-line.

  “Disney World wasn’t magical enough for you?”

  “A torrential downpour is also the best time for burying a body,” Lola said.

  “I’m sorry, I’ll stop.” Fletcher held up his hands in surrender. “Is there something you wanted to do this weekend, darlin’?”

  Lola speared a piece of broccoli. “Anything else about Sprites that I need to know?”

  “They’re attracted to mischief.”

  “Why don’t we stir up a little mischief?” Lola winked at her husband.

  Noodles stopped halfway to Fletcher’s mouth. “What sort?” He grinned.

  “Does it matter?” Lola swept a stray lock of hair behind her ear and with her opposite hand beneath the table, she trailed her fingers along Fletcher’s thigh, feeling his muscle flex, the fabric of his slacks tightening, when he moved his leg closer to her touch.

  The noodles between Fletcher’s chopstick’s wobbled and sauce dripped onto the table. The side of Fletcher’s mouth pulled up into a sly grin and his silver eyes flashed. “Are you suggesting we mix work and pleasure, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  Lola peered at him through the dark fringe of her lashes, her lips pursed slightly. “I’m not suggesting. Shall we manage mischief, baby?” Her finger skimmed along the soft space where Fletcher’s thigh joined his body, close to his balls, but careful to not touch, only teasing.

  Fletcher abandoned his chopsticks and shoved his food aside and pushed up from the table. “Oh, I’ll manage your mischief, darlin’.” He scooped her up from the chair and started for the stairs.

  “Elevator,” Lola said, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  Fletcher rolled his eyes. “Levitating was never your thing, was it?”

  “It’s cool the first few times.” Lola shrugged and grinned up at him.

  The sight of her and Fletcher’s suitcase on the luggage rack by the giant oak armoire in the fifth floor guest room gave Lola the staying-a-weekend-at-her-grandparents’ house vibe, not exactly sexy. A queen size Victorian era brass bed with a duvet and comforter decorated with a vintage rose pattern was the focal piece of the room. A hardback copy of Game of Thrones, the tassel of a bookmark hung from near the halfway point of the monster tome, sat beside a Tiffany lamp.

  Fletcher flicked his fingers, and the comforter and top sheet fell from the bed to the floor. He laid her on the bed and kissed her—lips parting their tongues danced. Lola arched toward him, the sweet taste of him and the slight tingle of magic invading her senses. She nipped at his bottom lip. Fletcher groaned. His hand skimmed over the curve o
f her waist, his fingertips brushing the flesh in the space between the hem of her sweater and the waistband of her jeans.

  Lola arched her back so that Fletcher could pull her sweater up and off. His kisses moved from her lips down across her throat and over the tops of her breasts, still cradled in her utilitarian nude colored bra. The cold metal of his tie tack touched her bare skin, raising goose bumps. Fletcher loosened the button and zip fly of her jeans. She shimmied, raising her hips, enjoying the warmth of his touch as he tugged her jeans and— because it was damn near impossible to remove skinny jeans without simultaneously removing them—panties.

  “You look sexy as hell in these things, baby, but they are a pain in the ass to get you out of,” Fletcher said, struggling slightly to free her feet from the denim fabric.

  Lola snickered.

  Fletcher crawled back up to her, positioning himself between her thighs. Through his slacks, his hard cock pressed against the top of Lola’s thigh. He caressed Lola’s exposed skin, his fingertips trailing magic over the curve of her hip toward the center of her belly. With his index finger, he drew circles around Lola’s navel.

  Lola moaned, her toes curling, the exquisite combination of his touch and his magic heightening her desire. She reached for the buttons of his waistcoat, popped them open one by one, and took hold of the lose fabric, pulling Fletcher down to her. She kissed him on the mouth. The gold pin pressed in the space between her breasts. Lola pushed him away enough to slip her hand between their bodies and undo the tie tack. Lola laid it on the bedside table by the lamp.

  Fletcher nuzzled against her throat, his kisses soft and hot. He nipped at her earlobe and drew his tongue over the throbbing pulse point in her neck. Lola untied Fletcher’s tie and unbuttoned the buttons on the collar and the first three on his shirt. She pulled his tie from his neck, listening to the hiss of silk across the starched cotton/polyester blend.

  “Tie me up.” Lola said between panting breaths.

  Fletcher smirked against her shoulder, his top teeth grazing her skin. “Of course, darlin’.” His breath was warm against her. He took the tie from her and wove it around her wrists, looping it over one of the brass bars in the bed’s headboard. The silk warmed slowly with Lola’s body heat.