River — My life got derailed by a sneaky old woman in an assisted living
home. The cloak-and-dagger story she frames is both unnerving and exciting. I
thought Mrs. Walsh was living in her past, some heartbreaking episode of
dementia… until I found the package she sent me looking for in a
library in Vancouver. Next thing I know, I’m on a wild ride with two
ridiculously handsome brothers — Mrs. Walsh’s grandsons. I’ve
spent my life feeling like the background character, but now I’m the
star of the show. I’m a little scared, but I’d be lying if I said
I wasn’t intrigued.
Crush — The moment I see River, I know my life is about to change.
She’s got that “sweet and innocent” thing that makes me
wonder how I’m going to resist her. Or if I even want to. I know
I’m a pawn in one of my grandmother’s games, and I’m OK with
playing along. But what am I supposed to do when I want a woman my brother
also wants? Something about River makes the risk worth taking, even knowing
this arrangement could blow up in my face.
Byte — River’s beautiful, courageous, slightly crazy… and the
woman I want for my own. However she’s got just as tight a hold on my
brother Crush as she does on me, and no one comes between me and my brother.
Our grandmother’s a master strategist, but I don’t think her plans
include the three of us getting stuck in a tiny cabin on the side of a
mountain… or does it?
EXCERPT
River
The public library in Vancouver, Washington looked like a cross between an
urban mall and the Roman Coliseum. With more overdue notices and fewer
gladiators. I had no idea why I was here. It’s not like I actually
expected to find anything. I just couldn’t seem to resist the thought of
an adventure.
At exactly four in the afternoon, I stepped through the revolving glass doors
and tried to look inconspicuous. Not an easy feat, considering the purpose was
to retrieve a mystery envelope for a possibly ex-CIA spymaster or some shit
from behind an old, out-of-date encyclopedia, like the world’s nerdiest
drop point. And maybe I was lost in my own fanciful musings. I had to smile. I
was kind of having fun. It was like an adventure!
It wasn’t raining, for once, but the air still had the clinging, wet
asphalt smell that was oddly comforting. I thought I should be nervous or
something, but it was too much fun to think about to be nervous. I’d
been assigned a quest by a cryptic, possibly delusional fairy godmother with a
Parkinson’s tremor and a talent for psychological warfare. The thought
made me stifle a giggle.
I drifted through the main floor, past the help desk and the “Local
Authors” display, straight to the elevator. Behind me, a kid in a
Spiderman backpack trailed his mom toward the children’s section,
skipping along and looking excited. I definitely felt the same way.
The elevator doors closed on a guy in a T-shirt with a faded band logo and I
rode in silence to the third floor. According to Mrs. Walsh, the reference
section was tucked back behind geography, a quiet warren of study carrels and
shelves no one under sixty ever browsed. I’d scoped it online the night
before. I’m not dumb.
Mrs. Walsh had been explicit. “The 1986 World Atlas, behind the second
row, center shelf. Not the 1992 edition. Only the ‘86.” If
she’d specified a Dewey Decimal code, I might have laughed, but her face
had been stone cold when she said it. Like there’d be real consequences
for screwing this up, and not just “forgetting to refill the saltshakers
in the dining room” level consequences.
When I found the book, I couldn’t suppress a little thrill zinging
through me. I remembered the library in the group home I’d spent the
most time in during my childhood had mystery series that I loved to read.
Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden were my absolute favorites. I could see both
amateur sleuths in my exact place.
The cover was two shades of dark maroon, sun faded at the edges, and heavier
than I’d expected. I was careful as I pulled out the book, but my hands
were actually trembling. There was no one else in the aisle, unless you
counted the porcelain bust of some stern-faced man from a couple hundred years
ago glaring from the endcap.
Just behind where the book had been, affixed to the back of the shelf with two
strips of black tape, was a little metal box. Like an Altoid tin but with no
writing on it, and bigger. My pulse thumped and I had to take a deep breath to
keep from giggling in excitement. What the hell was going on? I probably
should be alarmed instead of thrilled. There were so many questions I had a
feeling I was going to have a hard time finding answers for, but I knew there
was no way I wasn’t going to let this whole adventure play out on its
own.
I slid the box free, tucked it in my back pocket, and hurried down the aisle,
around the corner, and into the bathroom. Once safely inside a stall with the
door locked, I slid the tin from my pocket and popped it open. I lifted off
the top and tucked the lid into the base and braced myself for… what? A
flash drive? A bloodstained thumb? Uranium? You know, just for kicks.
Nope. Inside the little box was a small phone. Not an old-ass flip phone like
I expected, but a sleek, dark rectangle with no brand, already powered up.
There was one unread message notification on the screen. In the box, there was
a folded sheet of plain white paper and a sealed envelope. The paper was blank
except for a single line written in bold Sharpie.
Remember the words. Do not write them down.
Yeah. I remembered.
I opened the envelope and stared at what looked like a find-a-word puzzle,
only with no words listed to circle. Also, not all the symbols on the page
were numbers or letters. Some were mathematical symbols or hieroglyphs. Yeah.
That was hopeless. A small stack of one-hundred-dollar bills tucked inside
another folded piece of paper looked at me like an accusation, like I was
doing something naughty. I’d be lying to myself if I didn’t get a
little thrill with the thought. The second paper had a number written on it.
No dashes or spaces and it was too many digits for a phone number. Right. So
much for written instructions. I stuffed the paper back in the envelope and
tucked it inside my bra. Why? Because I’d always wanted to do that! It
was like I was really smuggling something out of the library like a real spy.
I giggled. So not telling Maggie about that.
I left the bathroom and, just in case, I put the metal box behind a row of
obsolete encyclopedias a few shelves over, figuring that if I was being tailed
by hostile librarians they’d have to earn their stripes.
She hadn’t really given me any instructions past finding the box and its
contents but I was starting to get a bit of an eerie feeling. Not like I was
in danger, exactly, but like maybe I should take Mrs. Walsh at face value
until proven definitively otherwise. So, instead of sticking around, I went
back to my apartment before I opened the message on that phone.
Call the contact listed in this phone. Use the video option.
I tried to remember if I’d actually committed to doing this, or if I was
just being swept along by Mrs. Walsh’s gravitational pull. The only
people who had ever really wanted something from me either needed a bath or a
ride to physical therapy, not a covert op involving classified code words and
burner phones.
But the truth was, I had nothing better to do. Literally nothing. My next
shift wasn’t for three days. I didn’t own a car, so I either
Ubered or bused everywhere. No long-term friends, no family, no one to say
“don’t do it.” And what if it was real? What if Mrs. Walsh
had once been the spook she said she was? Was this some kind of generational
torch-passing, or did she just want a patsy for plausible deniability? I mean,
given the whole no family, no friends situation I certainly fit the profile in
either case.
I stared at the phone. The contact hovered, daring me to press
“call.” Before I could think better of it, I did.
The phone rang once, then again. I thought it would go to voicemail, but on
the third ring the screen flickered to life with the video call I’d just
initiated.
For half a second, I almost dropped the phone. The screen showed two men in a
small, windowless room. The older of the two had a full face that was deeply
tanned and rough with more than a few days’ growth of dark beard. He
wore a black long-sleeved shirt rolled to the elbows, his arms crossed on the
tabletop like he was expecting a confession. The other man was maybe five or
ten years younger than the larger man, with short, dark hair and glacial blue
eyes. Neither looked amused and both looked more than a little confused.
“Who is this?” The big one asked. “Where did you get this
phone?”
About the Author
Marteeka Karland is an international bestselling author who leads a double
life as an erotic romance author by evening and a semi-domesticated housewife
by day. Known for her down and dirty MC romances, Marteeka takes pleasure in
spinning tales of tenacious, protective heroes and spirited, vulnerable
heroines. She staunchly advocates that every character deserves a blissful
ending, even, sometimes, the villains in her narratives. Her writings are
speckled with intense, raw elements resulting in page-turning delight entwined
with seductive escapades leading up to gratifying conclusions that elicit a
sigh from her readers.
Away from the pen, Marteeka finds joy in baking and supporting her husband
with their gardening activities. The late summer season is set aside for
preserving the delightful harvest that springs from their combined efforts
(which is mostly his efforts, but you can count it). To stay updated with
Marteeka’s latest adventures and forthcoming books, make sure to visit her
website. Don’t forget to register for her newsletter which will pepper you
with a potpourri of Teeka’s beloved recipes, book suggestions, autograph
events, and a plethora of interesting tidbits.
Author Links
Author on Instagram & TikTok: @marteekakarland
Author on Facebook
Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress
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