It’s that time of year again, folks.

Wish lists expand and checking accounts shrink.

Temperatures drop and tempers flare.

Let’s combat the holiday chaos with the Tipsy Santa Flash Fiction event! Below is my contribution to the Tipsy Santa event, with just a dash of suspense to whet your palate for more. The full story should be out in 2019 under the title, ANGEL INK, book 3 in the Concrete Angels MC series. Right now, you're with Haley Michaels and the holiday party is not going the way she'd like. If you want to read the beginning of the scene, you can find it HERE. Want to write your own entry? Click HERE.

Happy holidays and happy reading!

I had to find a way to both report on the ADA’s death and get the cops involved because I couldn’t do a damn thing about a dead guy in the stairwell. I crept up to the door and peered around the edge. The room beyond looked like a new office space with furniture wrapped in plastic and boxes of office equipment piled around. Nothing remained of the murder except some blood splatter on the floor and plastic wrap.

I reached for the door to pull it open but stopped. Think forensics. The last thing I wanted to leave were footprints or fingerprints. I used the heel of my shoe to tug the door open wide enough to slip through, careful not to step in any of the blood. I wanted to bolt toward the elevators, but I forced myself to go slow enough to miss smudging the evidence. Forensics, forensics, forensics.

I made it to the elevators and used the heel of my shoes to press the down button. Take only mental pictures and leave nothing else. Yeah, didn’t have the same ring to it as the usual line, but I didn’t want to broadcast my involvement. I put my shoes back on, the heels tight and cold, and stepped into the car. Shit, how am I gonna press the floor number?

I stood there a few moments, trying to decide when I remembered the party on the next floor down. Hundreds of people had pressed that floor number to get to it. Mine would be with everyone else’s print on the button. Despite that reassurance, I used the hem of my dress to cover my finger as I made my selection.

I could hear the holiday music long before the doors opened and the volume blasted at me as soon as they did. I grimaced and stepped into the room, the party going full swing. More so if the bra hanging from the overhead light fixture is any indication. People were “dirty dancing” in the middle of the room where they’d pushed the furniture aside. Some were pretty good at it--er, correction, those people might actually be having sex—while others swayed drunkenly along the edges. One woman bent over, her shoulders heaving as she puked. On her knees. In some guy’s lap? Definitely not puking.

Holy shit, I’d gone away for about an hour, and the party turns into a drunken holiday orgy while the ADA gets murdered upstairs. Might as well be the Nakatomi Plaza. Yippy-kai-yay, mudfucker. I spotted my “date” sharing a ménage with the man and women he’d been hanging around earlier and headed for the coat room. Was sex at a holiday party considered prostitution? I didn’t really want to know. I had to find a phone.

I threw my coat over my shoulders and shoved my arms through the sleeves just as someone stumbled into me. Two someones. I lost my balance and fell into the mass of coats on the hangers, dropping to the floor. A high-pitched giggle was followed by the sound of a belt buckle coming undone and a drunken male grunt.

“Oh, yeah, baby. Whip out that man-meat.”

They’re not gonna—Never mind.

Another male grunt combined with a matching female grunt and the sound of bodies hitting the wall, rhythmically, filled the coatroom space. The scent of arousal mixed with alcohol perfumed the air and I rubbed my face with my hands. I so don’t need this.

Gritting my teeth, I stood up and pushed my way through the coats. “Excuse me.”

The woman squawked, which was pretty impressive since the guy had her damn near folded in half against the wall as he jack-hammered into her. He didn’t even pause as I shoved past and I left them to their conjugal relations. I needed to get out of here and find a phone.

And a ride. How the hell was I gonna get home? What I really need is a guardian angel. I stepped onto the elevator and let it carry me away from the folks getting carried away upstairs.

When the elevator doors opened, I headed for the security desk, but the phones had been shut down for the holidays. Great. Outside it is. But the moment I stepped outside, my gaze landed on the man waiting for me on his bike in the snow. Holy shit, it’s the guy from the Museum.

742 #CockyBikerWIP words
#flashfiction #TS2018
@SiobhanMuir

Welcome to Flash Fiction...A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words. Wow, we've made it to December. This year has flashed by so fast. I'm not nearly ready for the holidays, but the snow falling outside my windows is pretty. This time the story was inspired the following image, and it helps me with the third Cocky Biker tale coming out. It went a whole lot longer than I intended, but here you go.

I swore I’d never put myself in this position again, but here I was, sitting on some back staircase with nothing but my dress, my high heels, my phone, and what little privacy I’d found. You’re so dumb and trusting, Haley. Which was pretty stupid considering I was supposed to be an investigative journalist.
Thank glory I didn’t have my ID on me. Of course, when they find your body, that’ll make it harder to identify you. Oh yeah, I was full of those cheerful thoughts. So much for getting into the holiday spirit.

I wrapped my arms around my chest and leaned my elbows on my thighs. I was safe at the moment. Despite the pounding bass coming through the emergency exit doors, the stairwell was relatively quiet. A little light filtered through the dingy windows from the street lights outside, but otherwise, it was dark. So far, no one else had found this little oasis of calm to have a quickie or a good cry. Although I’m getting close to the second one.

I’d come here with the guy I’d thought was my boyfriend. Carl had sworn it was going to be a fun holiday party with the YouPros—Young Professionals, the new millennium’s Yuppies—of Fort Collins. He’d said it was where anyone who was anyone would be at this time of year. I hadn’t really wanted to go, but he said I’d make contacts with the news corp. He played you, Haley. Just like Jimmy had ten years ago.

I shoved the unhappy thoughts of the past away and scrubbed my face. I should’ve known there was something going on. Carl seemed to be getting twitchy, like a guy who’d been using something addictive. He’d also had the look of frenzied desperation, the kind of look on people jonesing for the next best thing, and I totally bought into it. Right up until he started playing tonsil hockey with not one, not two, but three of the partygoers, one of them a guy. He was the life of the party. Yeah, can’t compete with that. Now I was in the position of no ride, no money, and no understanding of where the hell I actually was. Yeah, I had my phone, but I couldn’t tell anyone where to come get me.

I’m so fucked.

I needed to find a way home from here, wherever here was, but that meant going back through the party to get out of the building. This staircase led to the basement, and there was no way in hell I was going down there. Hello, serial killerville. I pulled out my phone to check what time it was and found it deader than a door nail. Shit. So much for GPS or calling the cavalry.

I bit my lip and considered the door I’d come through. I might be able to find a phone if I went back to the party. Hell, I could probably lift one off one of the guests and they’d never notice. Those old pickpocketing skills came in handy in the oddest times.

Sighing, I stood up and pulled my skirt back down to the proper length. Yeah, I’d be getting rid of this dress as soon as I got home. I hated when the fitted skirts rode up. All right, Michaels. Let’s do this. I grasped the door handle and pulled.

Nothing happened.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

I yanked on the door, but the latch held despite using all of my hundred and sixty-five plus pounds of weight. The door was locked and no one could hear me in the party. And my phone was dead.

“Oh my GLORY!” I slammed my hand against the door, hoping someone might actually hear me over the damn music, but no one came to check it out. “Fuck!”

Biting my bottom lip, I looked up the staircase. Maybe one of the other doors were unlocked and I could at least get back into the building. I memorized the floor number on the party’s door and climbed the stairs to the next floor.

I was about to bang on it, but I paused when I heard what sounded like voices coming from the other side. Logically, it would’ve made sense to thump on the door and have them open it for me. But something made me pause. The voices weren’t loud, but they didn’t sound happy or particularly friendly. Maybe I didn’t want them to know I was there.

This was confirmed a moment later when I heard someone shout what sounded like, “No, wait! Don’t!” Just before two gun shots rang out.

I gasped and froze, holding my breath. Not that they knew I was there, but I wasn’t about to take any chances they’d notice me.

“All right, come on. Get his legs and throw him in the stairwell. They won’t find him until we’re long gone. And don’t forget to police your brass.”

Stairwell? Fuck! Whatever they were planning to do, it involved my stairwell and they were very likely to see me. And shoot my unlucky ass. Panic hit me in a wave and I backed away from the door, my shoes clattering loud enough to be heard over the party.

Swearing under my breath, I bent over and yanked off my shoes before I padded down several steps and ducked under the the curve of the stairs. I flattened myself agains the wall as the door above me opened and light spilled into the stairwell. I didn’t dare move as two guys dropped something heavy onto the steps, grumbling about the weight.

“Shit, did the guy have to eat all those frozen pizzas? He’s fuckin’ heavy.”

“Shut up, Inky. Just make sure he’s got no ID on him.”

Inky snorted. “How’s that gonna help? His fuckin’ face is all over the newspapers and internet. Takin’ his ID won’t hide who he is.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky and get some cops who don’t know who he is.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Look, just clear his pockets and let’s get outta here. I don’t want any of those partiers findin’ us here with him. Backlog says we got too much to do in prep for the big boss comin’ to town.”

“Yeah, yeah. Keep your shirt on.” There was some rustling as they rifled through the dead guy’s pockets. “Okay, I think I got everything. Keys, phone, wallet, and Chapstick. No wonder his lips looked so soft.”

“Eww, Inky, that’s nasty.”

“No, nasty is your lips, Tinder. There’s no excuse for not keeping your lips healthy. You know the skin is the biggest organ on your body, right?”

Their voices faded as the door above started to close. Too late I realized that was my only ticket out of the stairwell with the dead guy. I whimpered with distaste and padded back up the stairs, hoping I’d be able to catch the door before it latched.

Turns out, I needn’t have worried. The dead guy’s foot had caught in the door, holding it open about an inch. I glanced down at the body’s face as I made to pass it and stopped, my stomach dropping into my bare feet.

“Holy shit, that’s ADA Patrick O’Donnell.”

Inky had been right. Everyone knew Assistant District Attorney O’Donnell and they wouldn’t need his ID to identify him. And I’d been present at the scene of his murder. Without a functioning phone. This night just kept getting better and better.
~~~~~~~

That's it for me. Check out the other authors and their flashfiction from the image prompt. Happy reading!

• Bronwyn Green
• Gwen Cease

Woohoo! Welcome to Weird, Wild, & Wicked tales for a cover reveal of MY FOREVER COCKY BIKER ENCOUNTER. This story started when the #CockyGate trademark kerfluffle came about in May 2018. The brouhaha surrounding #CockyGate was so frustrating, I started writing a little tongue-in-cheek story to make myself laugh. I thought it would be a few thousand words and would come to nothing. Yeah, apparently along with humor, a real romance tale erupted, and swelled to 55K words. Not only that, but it spawned four more stories, and I'm almost done with the second one. The story behind the title is all these words were going to be trademarked because of the attempt to trademark "cocky". So "forever", "biker", "encounter", and yes, "cocky" were all on the list to be withheld from public use. Fortunately, it came to nothing, but there's definitely a story here for you to enjoy. This tale will be out January 15 2019. It's First Person, M/F Biker romance with humor and snark.

Here's the blurb:

Oriana Hunter
 
I don’t trust many people, bikers included. Most especially, the bikers from the Concrete Angels Motorcycle Club. But when I’m abducted by my “best friend” to come work for them as a forensic accountant, I don’t have a lot of choice. Hey, at least I got them to sign a contract, and it comes with dental. All I have to do is find out who’s embezzling from them and I can go home. I have far too many demons to be around anyone for very long. It would go a lot faster if I didn’t have a handsome cocky biker hanging around and being nice to me. The question is which folks are worse, those wearing the Concrete Angels’ cuts or the FBI jackets?
 
Scott Free
 
Oriana Hunter is the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen walk through the gates of the Concrete Angels’ compound, and she’s badass, through and through. But she doesn’t trust anyone, me especially, and I can recognize the signs of someone dealing with PTSD from my time in the Army. Turns out, she’s a former FBI agent who left the bureau after she was raped, and doesn’t trust bikers or men. Not that I blame her. I wouldn’t trust us either. But I know she’ll figure out our money leak, and quickly. She’s too smart not to. Which means I don’t have a lot of time to prove I’m not what she thinks and convince her to stay.

Leave me a comment to tell me what you think. This title is Book 1 in the Concrete Angels MC series and should be out January 15 2019. Great thanks to Kris Norris and Paul Henry Serres for the fantastic image. Keep your eyes peeled for the pre-order link HERE. Happy reading!