Bump: A Palmetto Predators Novel

By Thio Isobel Moss

Chapter 1:  Snap

August 27th

Jayne was pissed.

Bean snorted.

Jayne was often pissed. Her emotional range had obviously been stunted. By what, though? If her repertoire didn’t expand, there would need to be some explanation. Orphaned at an early age? Distant parents? Chronic illness? Unfortunately, every backstory felt like a cliché. History with a possessive lover? So over it. Tormented by the mean girls in high school? Yawn. Jilted for her younger sister?

“Don’t go down that road, Bean, m’girl,” she quietly advised herself, tugging the duvet out from under Colonel Atticus Biscuit—Cutty for short. The Russian Blue was very reluctant to let it go. He’d always been a blanket hog. “The two of you were over long before anything happened, and you adore your nieces and nephew. High time to get over it. Brurrurrurrurr.”

Bean shivered and burrowed deeper into the plush pile of bedding, massaging her hands to warm them up while listening to the rain splatter on the metal roof—and ignoring the soft press of a child’s feet gently padding down the hall.

Jayne was pissed.

Carlos was late. Again.

Was he really, though? Carlos was Mr. Dependable. Salt of the earth. Bean had a sneaking suspicion that Carlos had a thorough contempt for anyone who made a habit of being late. If he were ever late, there would be no “again” about it.

Jayne was alarmed.

Carlos was late. Carlos was never late.

Bleh.

Perhaps she was going at this all wrong. What did she know for certain? Jayne was in a forest. At night. It was raining. She was wounded. She was being hunted by a pack of vicious werewolves who would gladly rip her throat out.

Arterial spray soaked Bean’s thoughts.

Yeah.

Anyway…

Is Jayne even Jayne at all? Joan? Jean? Jael? Jayde!

A svelte, leggy vixen with raven-black hair falling past her shoulders in a luxurious wave and full, glistening lips click-clacked her way to center stage in Bean’s imagination, snug in a royal blue body-con dress, and balanced atop improbably high heels. She was at least six feet of voluptuous nope.

Jayne?

A jaded soldier in worn, colorless fatigues promptly trotted forward, shaking out her short, shaggy, brown hair. It had a relaxed curl to it, softening the glint in her bitter chocolate eyes.

Yes! This!

The vixen burst into a cloud of royal blue dust.

Okay, Jayne was Jayne. Now—

Bean exploded upright as the bookshelves in her hall slammed into the bedroom wall, crushing sheetrock, shattering glass in picture frames, and dumping her library on the floor. Clutching the blankets to her chest, she gasped, sucking in oxygen.

Miss Tallulah Pecan’s bold orange eyes flicked up to her in a silent reprimand. The Bombay cat stretched, flopped over—giving her mistress her velvety black back, and coiling around her “brother.”

“Oh, it’s on,” snarled Bean, checking the clock. Three-thirty-nine. She liked a slow, early morning as much as the next person, but a full eight hours was always preferable to not quite six. Still.

She flipped the covers back and snagged her winter robe from the hook in her closet.

“You want to dance, Waldo?” she seethed. “We’ll dance!”

Bean flung her door open with a dramatic flourish, taking in the hair-raising sight of...a very tidy hallway—a little on the wide side, with beautiful stained built-in bookshelves still very much built-in.

With a hung head and rounded shoulders, Bean snapped. Her right knee popped. She snapped again, and the left knee shot out instead. Shuffling in small, precise movements, accompanied by a well-placed snap, Bean made it out the door. The light in the hall flickered in time to a beat only she could hear, buzzing when she twirled. With snaky wrists and an awkward posture, she danced into the kitchen and flicked on the light.

A fry pan was collected with chicken-like head movements and a controlled hip roll, dropping into a squat. Eggs, cheese, Canadian bacon, and bread were retrieved from the fridge with a series of chest thrusts ending with a shoulder shimmy. She shuffled to the stove, twirled again, and tipped an imaginary hat.

“Your turn. Show me whatcha got, Wally.”

The rain grew heavier, drilling the roof. A peach fell out of the fruit basket and rolled along the counter several feet. A child giggled, barely audible. The lights flickered again, and a dust bunny darted across the floor, as if an errant breeze had dislodged it from under the fridge.

Bean scooped it up, threw it away, and, when she turned back to her frying eggs, they had already been perfectly flipped, but the turner was clean.

“Not bad,” Bean conceded. “But what about this?”

She bobbed and bucked and strutted until she had a tray loaded with breakfast, a pen, and a notebook from the pantry-office. Navigating the front door required another Fosse-inspired production, but eventually she was seated at the bistro table on her screened-in front porch. As ever, the air was disgustingly humid, but the upside was that she no longer needed her robe. It was a balmy seventy-six.

“Top that,” she challenged...but in vain.

She didn’t get so much as a door creak in reply. Bean shrugged, used her teeth to snap open a flavored honey stick—hot cinnamon—and liberally coated her buttered toast. She flipped the notebook open.

“I guess I win.”

As usual.

Jayne was pissed.

Jayne was...determined?

Too early to be determined.

Jayne was resolved!

Way too early to be resolved.

Jayne meant business.

Jayne was a taciturn beast who hated everyone, and everything, and everyone and everything hated her back times two!

Bean groused at her meat and took a sip of orange juice.

Perplexed?

Concerned?

Ambivalent?

Jayne was afraid.

Huh. That could work, actually.

She bit her plump lip, tense and tormented.

Something was terribly wrong. Carlos was never late.

Jayne searched the dripping trees surrounding her, towering like silent guardians in the night, contemplating the possibilities. It was several seconds before she realized that the inky depths were gazing back at her with a disturbing intensity.

“That’s the best you’ve got?” Bean grunted, disgusted. “The dangerous stranger standing in the darkness, waiting for our heroine to notice him and, overcome by fear and his potent masculinity, swoon into his strong, morally gray arms?

A tall, sinister man with a five o’clock shadow, long silky hair, and a motorcycle jacket swaggered onto the stage. He peeled the jacket off slowly, letting each muscle ripple beneath his tight black shirt—giving Bean the look the entire time.

“Stalker romances are in,” she murmured, crossing out the lines, “but they’re sooo not my thing.” Bean greatly preferred a mentally stable, moral hero in a Henley and jeans—who was impressively muscled. A man needs to be able to protect his lady, after all. It was a big, scary world. So scary.

The first draft was for excising all the thirsty tropes that lived rent-free in her head, anyway. Originality would seep in over the following edits, and the final product would be elegant and unrecognizable. If Jayne were into possessive bad boys right now, fine. By the third draft, she’d have more experience, sophistication, and wisdom.

One hoped.

Bean cut into her peach, licking an errant trickle of juice off her hand, and choked.

Parked on the far side of the street, right in front of her house, was a motorcycle—glossy and dark. Maybe a Moto Guzzi? It was hard to tell in the semi-darkness.

Perched against said motorcycle and staring at her was a tall man, wearing an expression of intense curiosity. Staring at the house, Bean corrected herself. He couldn’t possibly see her. As such, she felt free to examine him thoroughly.

His hair was cut in a high and tight, and if his jaw had been any more defined, she could look it up in Webster's. He wasn’t giving her the look. He wasn’t brooding, glaring, or menacing either...but as overused romantic leads went, he wasn’t at all disappointing.

Unless he was another deranged fan. That would be a tragedy and a crime against humanity.

Bean scolded her libido into good behavior.

How long had he been there?

She hadn't heard a motorcycle drive up. Had he arrived before she came out? Or had she failed to notice him drive up? She flipped through the little notebook, finding seven pages filled with variations on the same three to four sentences. That decided it; it was entirely possible that she had been concentrating too hard to hear anything.

It was also possible that he had a perfectly acceptable reason for being perched outside her mid-century ranch at the witching hour. There was no reason to jump to hysterical conclusions. None at all. It would be absurd to suppose that this pillar of masculinity was going to murder her in her own hometown, two houses down from her childhood home. And unfair, besides! She’d only really settled in a few months ago.

Why was he staring at her...house...if he wasn’t a deranged fan? He couldn’t see her. There was no way. The lights were off. Perhaps he’d heard her? She wasn’t normally a vocal eater, but she’d had both honey and a peach. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that she’d groaned in happiness...or gurgled like a greedy and possessive wolverine over her vittles.

“Nice night, isn’t it?” she asked, keeping her voice soft. If her mother happened to look out the window and saw this prime specimen, she really would die—of embarrassment. Juliette Stuckey was a force of nature.

The stranger’s gaze sharpened, shifting by ten degrees.

“It is. Perfect night for dancing.”

Bean’s jaw dropped, and she glanced back at the house. The lights were off now, but no doubt, she’d put on quite the show a few minutes ago. And now she knew. He’d been there for some time.

“It’s always the perfect night for dancing. The only real question is what kind.”

His answering smile was devastating.

“Musical theater kid?” he softly inquired, impertinence written all over him.

“Guilty.”

She eyed him critically, determined to make her own pithy deduction.

“Military?”

Another grin.

“Ex. It’s been a few years, now,” he replied, cocking his head.

He stood up, and Bean recalibrated his height. He took three slow, smooth strides toward her, every inch a predator. Her breath caught, and she stiffened in alarm—but he paused in the middle of the road. Headlights illuminated him.

Using the flashlight function on his phone, he signaled to the driver.

Seconds ticked by, the roar of an engine growing closer.

Mr. Motorcycle signaled again, and a big box truck pulled into the driveway next door. Bean couldn’t read the typography on the side, but she recognized the logo.

“Have a good day, ma’am,” he said, returning to the bike and following the truck down the drive.

“You, too,” she managed as he rode by, then reality slapped her upside the head.

“Bean, you fool!”

Stacking her dishes on the tray, she dashed inside, dumped them on the counter, and darted into the war room. Flipping on the lights, she scanned the top of the file cabinet, the conference table, and the bookshelf. The binder wasn’t there. She spun in a circle and discovered several binders stacked into a very wobbly castle—her nephew Otto’s handiwork. The clever boy was drawn to engineering.

Adrenaline pumped in her veins as she checked labels. Opportunities like this never happened.

“Passwords, budget, taxes...HOA,” she crowed, snatching up the red binder with black, spiraling horns on the cover.

The castle, missing its rear support, slumped to one side with a resigned sigh. Bean didn’t hear it; she was already charging out the door.

“Please be married,” she pleaded under her breath. A Jayde would be great—even a Jael with a dishwater blond pixie and cute glasses perched on her upturned nose would work. Heck, she’d take a Myrtle!

A car and a pickup were now parked in front of the house next door, and soft sounds were coming from the back. Grabbing her robe from the porch chair, she walk-jogged down the driveway, pausing briefly to thrust her arms into it and tie the thing shut, the binder clamped between her thighs. She was a lady; no need to give anyone the wrong impression.

Modesty preserved, she continued toward the back of the house.

“Excuse me,” Bean called, feeling like a creeper as she spied three fit men and one athletic woman unloading the moving van. The woman wasn't a Jayde. Closer to a Jayne. Petite, brunette, and muscular, she had her curls pulled back in a high ponytail and wore a loose t-shirt over jeans. Maybe a Meghan? Daniella? Whatever her name, she would do very well for a wife or girlfriend. “I'm sorry to interrupt when you're obviously busy. Are you my new neighbors?”

Without meaning to, she directed the question to the woman. Bean wasn't intimidated by the men, but she did feel awkward ambushing them in the middle of the night...in her pajamas. If she hadn’t been so worried about missing them, she’d have taken the time to put on real clothes.

The brunette scanned her head-to-toe and grinned, mischief written all over her pretty face. Bean flushed, self-conscious, and wondering if she’d been pegged as a nutter.

“Gabe is. We're just the dumb muscle,” the woman explained, nodding her head to indicate one of two men exiting the basement.

“Gabe?” Bean repeated, a question in her voice as she turned around.

“Yes, ma'am,” the taller of the two stepped forward, illuminated by floodlights. His brows lifted in silent inquiry.

She really hoped the brunette was his girlfriend. Gabe was one hundred percent the man her mother always dreamed she would marry. His appearance wasn't just neat, it was immaculate. His black hair was freshly trimmed; his T-shirt and jeans had to have been starched and ironed. Even the laces on his sneakers had been tied with military precision. Perhaps he wasn't drop-dead gorgeous, but he was...arresting...in a fierce, disciplined, magnetic kind of way.

She'd bet good money his friends were in the military or had been recently discharged. They looked...hard.

If the brunette wasn't his girlfriend—and you can bet Juliette Stuckey would not rest until she found out—Bean was going to be in real trouble. Pity he hadn’t moved in a few streets away. At a discreet distance, things might have gotten interesting.

Alas.

“Hi, I'm Sabine Stuckey. I apologize for swooping over here like this, but we don't usually get to the newcomers first,” she blurted.

His head tilted like a bird's, attentive but without a hint of emotional commitment in his dark eyes as he listened. She could practically see him dissecting every phrase, leeching every possible meaning from each word.

All right. Bean was intimidated by this man.

Inhaling deeply, she rallied and continued, “The houses on the south side of Millicent Loop predate the Palmetto Estates subdivision and its HOA. As such, you're not in their jurisdiction, you’re not required to be a member, you don't owe them any dues, and they can't dictate what you do with your house, but they'll try very hard to tell you otherwise. Several of us have gone to court over it...several times. We didn't know that Mr. Vargas had sold his house, or we would have printed up all the details for you. These are my notes—with dates and copies of court documents. Natalie Dwight, the HOA president, will visit you tomorrow. She’s way better than her predecessor, but if you have a chance, it may help to read through this. I swear this is a great neighborhood, but you need to be very firm with the HOA.”

She shoved the binder at Gabe, who seemed transfixed by her choice of ornamentation.

“That's intense,” one of the men muttered.

“I know it's a lot,” she concurred, half-turning to the others, “but we didn't get to Jimmy Brown and Gita Trivedi in time. Jimmy paid dues for months, and they tried to put a lien on Gita's home. Eventually, everything got straightened out...but it was stressful.”

“So, by several times you mean...twelve hearings...between five residents and the HOA,” my new neighbor observed, flipping through several pages, “all within the same three-year period.”

Gloria Wiggs, the previous HOA president, had been batshit crazy and vindictive. Even the other members of the HOA knew it. They eventually booted her out and, unable to cope with the humiliation, she’d packed up and moved. Post-Wiggs, Millicent Loop was a much calmer, friendlier place.

“Unfortunately, yes—before Nat took over. It makes a lousy housewarming present, I know,” Bean murmured, cringing and compulsively retying her robe’s belt.

Gabe’s eyes flicked to the motion before returning to the binder.

“Not at all. You've saved me a headache. Thank you, Ms. Stuckey.”

“Sabine, please. And you're welcome. Welcome to the neighborhood!”

She held her arms wide to encompass all of the Loop and chuckled in a completely calm, rational, non-hysterical way.

“Gabe Tessay,” her neighbor replied, offering a hand. “Behind you are Gaia Coinin, Jonathan Muller, Jake Amsel, Taylor Amsel, and Dirk Spottedhorse. You’ll see them around for a few days.”

His hand was warm and dry. He used just the right amount of pressure—strong and reassuring. Darn it. Even her dad would like him. Abner Stuckey was fond of saying that it was impossible to know a man before he showed you who he was, but a handshake was a fair indicator.

“It's nice to meet you. I'll let you get back to unpacking. If you need anything, let me know,” she said, her smile somewhat bashful as she reclaimed her hand and stepped back.

“It was lovely meeting you, too, Sabine,” Gaia murmured, her smirk too toothy and too pointed to be playful. It wasn't jealousy. Her expression was almost bubbly.

The gentlemen made polite noises as Bean retreated. Laughter and the sounds of friendly ribbing chased her back up the driveway. A couple of times, she thought she heard her name, but not what was said. She sighed, relieved and contented with the completion of her mission, but all peopled-out.