Improbables
Jonathan
Charles Bruce
Genre:
Paranormal Romance
Publisher:
Booktrope
Date
of Publication: February 22, 2016
ISBN:
978-1-5137-0653-5
ASIN:
B01BH86AWU
Number
of pages: 334
Word
Count: 107,360
Cover
Artist: Ashley Ruggirello
Book
Description:
Abigail
Wren’s new life fresh out of college is dull, even with her
(almost) dream job at the local newspaper. The only real excitement
she can get is found between the pages of an endless stream of
paranormal romance novels she can’t help but love.
Then,
on a snowy night in December, Abigail catches a glimpse of what could
only be described as a werewolf. Enamored with the possibility, her
investigation leads her to discover a paranormal
population—improbables—harmoniously living in the midst of
humanity. Between making eyes at a perpetually grumpy werewolf and
hanging out with a vampire with a lust for life (and liquor),
Abigail’s life takes a shaky step out of the ordinary and into the
fantastic.
Just
outside of the sleepy town of Whitewater, however, a force of rage is
building. Born of hate and delusion, a living cataclysm threatens to
devour everyone in its path—human or improbable.
Excerpt
from Chapter Three:
The
trip back to the office was short and uneventful. Parking her car was
also characteristically nondescript. On her way to the front doors,
Abigail realized that the entire car ride had been on autopilot.
Along with that realization came the panic associated with losing a
chunk of one’s precious life to monotony. And along with that came
a sudden worry that she might have flattened a child without
realizing it.
No.
Surely that would have been memorable—right?
Right
in the middle of a panicked mental recap of the events from picking
up her book to arriving in the parking lot, she slammed face-first
into a surprisingly warm wall of a person. She rebounded, only now
taking in the red-and-black flannel shirt she had plowed into. Her
hands shot out in an attempt to keep balance. A moment later, she
felt someone’s hands on her forearms.
“Easy
there,” came a gruff voice. Pulling herself out of her daze,
Abigail looked up at the person she had run into, who was now also,
kindly enough, keeping her upright. He was scruffy, a mop of brown
hair bleeding into a full (if short) beard worried with the
occasional silver strands. His eyes were an intense green, which,
coupled with the red in his shirt, gave his appearance an
unintentionally festive look. He was pale, but that was nothing out
of the ordinary, considering Abigail had forgotten what the sun
looked like in the weeks she’d been calling the Pacific Northwest
home.
He
was cute. In a ruggedly handsome way. Like a grizzled lumberjack.
Perhaps
cute was not the word for it.
Abigail
giggled, suddenly overtaken with the silliness of what just happened.
“Thank you,” she said, certain she was coming across like an
idiot. “You can let go now.” She smiled. The man obliged,
returning a tight-lipped smile that seemed to err on the side of
suffering-the-eccentric.
“Sorry.
Didn’t mean to…” he began before clearing his throat, “exist
where you wanted to exist at the same time.” He looked every bit as
awkward as she felt, which made her own discomfort slightly less
overbearing.
She
swallowed sheepishly. “It happens.” She suddenly felt the need to
clarify what she meant, so she gestured back and forth between the
two of them. “Existing at the same time and all.” She realized
that the gesture didn’t seem to quite work in the situation, so she
let her hand fall at her side as she averted her gaze.
“Try
as we might!” he said with an exaggerated shrug. They exchanged
unconvincing laughs before silence filled the void, mutated into a
pause, then sat long enough to be uncomfortable. While the quiet was
maliciously evolving, Abigail couldn’t help but trace her eyes up
the man’s exposed and muscular forearms. When she caught what she
was doing, she wondered where her unintentional partner’s eyes were
glued—no doubt, here was another person in Whitewater who would
take any opportunity to drink in the sight of the newest and blackest
resident.
Instead,
she was a little shocked—and pleased—to see he was staring at the
ground. He was legitimately embarrassed for slamming into her. In the
city, if someone ran into you it was either a pickpocketing or just a
nonstandard and jostly hello. In her hometown, it had been met with
an impertinent huff and followed by a subpar apology. Here… well,
if this was the first, being bumped into was hardly the worst way to
get to know someone.
Hey,
mountain man Joe, why don’t we walk into each other in front of a
coffee shop some time? she thought. This Whitewater-only pickup line
seemed dopey enough to be charming enough to work—and she couldn’t
help snickering at the thought.
“What’s
so funny?” he asked. She looked up at his eyes which had made a
momentary migration to her face.
The
smile from her laughter remained unbroken, but grew a touch larger.
“Nothing, just, uh…” She gestured to her temple. “I’m
hilarious up here, trust me.”
He
tilted his head back, enough to give her a full look at what she
assumed was post-embarrassment face-saving stoniness. He nodded.
“Sorry again.” And with that, he brushed aside her, carrying some
intense body heat with him, and walked away. She looked over her
shoulder at the man, watching him for a few seconds. Something
registered as odd, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
Regardless
of what it was that presently pricked at her brain, she shook it off.
She had spent weeks feeling exasperated when people felt they were
privileged enough to stare at her like a lab specimen; she wasn’t
too keen on forcing that behavior on someone else.
No
matter how green his stupid sexy eyes were.
She
turned around to the glass doors and jolted at the sight of Lacy
Renault, the woman in charge of business coverage. A tiny woman in
her fifties with short-cropped silver hair, she watched Abigail come
in with icy blue eyes and a gotcha-smile. She wore an immaculately
tailored red business suit, giving her the appearance of a circa 2008
female presidential candidate.
Abigail
stepped into the vestibule, grateful for the limited respite it
provided from the elements. “Were you watching that the whole
time?” she asked, trying not to look too confused by Lacy’s grin.
The expression was becoming a bit too knowing for her tastes.
“You
running into Collins?” She asked. She opened her eyes widely,
teasingly, and nodded. “Oh, my, yes!”
Abigail
shrugged. “Something I should know?”
Lacy
gave an embellished frown. “No, no. Just, uh…” She trailed off
in the way people do when overstressing a manufactured difficulty
with words. “Glad to see you’re taking in the sights.”
Well,
this conversation immediately failed the Bechdel Test, Abigail
thought icily.
About
the Author:
Jonathan
Bruce began writing what amounted to terrible Star Trek: The Next
Generation fan fiction when he was four… provided that you accept
that “forcing other people to write what he said” is the same
thing as “writing”. Although the original manuscripts are lost
(or perhaps destroyed), we can rest assured that his prose has
improved significantly since then. After high school, he began
writing and directing plays which gradually improved depending on
whom you ask. He discovered his love of a good fight scene after
writing a Dracula knock-off which took a 19th century classic and
made it less about Victorian yearning and 300% more about stabbing
things in the jugular.
He
has a Master’s Degree in History, thanks largely to his thesis
focusing on MUSIC, a Milwaukee-based school desegregation campaign
during the 1960’s. He also enjoys discussing/making fun of pop
culture of the 20th century and reading books of a non-historical
nature. In his off moments, you can catch him writing for fun or
making inane movies about nothing in particular.
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